


Blood, Buns, and Buffets: A Wrenchers/Toolbox Gang Tumblr Collection

by LadyDorian



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anilingus, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Polyamory, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 38,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unconnected ficlets and drabbles originating from tumblr prompts. Ratings range from SFW to "Hide Yo' Kids" (check chapter summary for rating). Some are bad, the rest are worse. Thank you for entrusting me with your headcanons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ham and Eggs (Between Your Legs)

**Author's Note:**

> Links to original tumblr posts in notes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamstralian/Ham Sandwich - Explicit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/97367119570/so-im-crazy-stressed-out-about-one-of-my-classes) _"So I'm crazy stressed out about one of my classes tonight, which obvs means I'm thinking about The Australian's reaction to getting a rare & really good blow job off of Hammer.(This is how my brain handles stress. Deal with it.)Aussie would be super surprised&delighted into breathless giddiness over this kind of attention from Hammer & would be constantly torn between a desire to keep Hammer's face between his thighs as long as possible & a desire to drag the boy up & make out with him for ages."_

There’s no fucking eggs.

After a night of rambunctious sex, Letters always gets up early and makes bacon and eggs for the three of them. But they’re out of eggs. And since there’s no way she’s eating frosted Pop-Tarts, Letters quickly pulls on some sweats and kisses the both of them goodbye before running down to the market.

It’s a ten, fifteen minute trip, tops. Hammer knows that, but his morning wood isn’t willing to wait. He rolls over and lazily wraps an arm around the Aussie’s waist, pulling him close.

Hammer’s cock feels warm and hard between his ass, and although he’d love nothing more that to have it inside him, Aussie pushes him away.

“Take it easy, mate. We should wait for Letters to come back. She likes a good fuck after breakfast.”

Hammer shoves him onto his back and straddles him, leaning over and crushing their lips together. Aussie thinks Hammer must be really fucking horny if he’s kissing him; it had taken six months for him to even acknowledge the Aussie as part of this odd relationship, only touching him if he was drunk or if Letters persuaded him well enough.

But now Hammer’s tongue is in his mouth, his hands are gripping his shoulders, and their hard cocks are grinding together. Aussie wonders if he’s dreaming; when Hammer slides down between his legs, he knows he must be dreaming.

His lips are moist from kissing, and they effortlessly glide down the length of the Aussie’s cock. He moans, digging his fists into Hammer’s soft curls as Hammer takes him into his mouth, swallowing him down almost to the base. Aussie stifles a laugh, choosing not to ask Hammer why he’s so eager for his cock all of a sudden. He’s not sure if he could even get the words out if he tried, because Hammer is swirling his tongue around the head now, and it’s so fucking good, he can barely think of anything else. Why did Letters leave in the first place? What has this cock-starved man done with their Hammer? What are “eggs” anyway?

Aussie is thrusting his hips upward, driving his cock to the back of Hammer’s throat. He’s so close, dying to come but not wanting this to end.

And then he hears a sharp gasp from what seems like far away.

“Shit, you boys couldn’t wait for me for ten minutes?”

Hammer lifts off of the Aussie’s cock at the sound of her voice. Letters tugs off her clothing and climbs into bed, kissing Hammer first and then the Aussie.

“Now, why don’t you two show me all the fun things you’ve been doing while I was away?”

The Aussie grins, and reaches for Hammer, the latter strangely accommodating.

“Oh, and why don’t you start from the beginning?” Letters leans back and slips a hand between her legs, eagerly awaiting their performance.


	2. Aw Sheet Sheet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit dirty talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/97656158310/wrench-and-numbers-are-getting-down-and-dirty-for) _"Wrench and Numbers are getting down and dirty for the first time. They are both crazy turned on and Wrench is literally pulling Numbers through his apartment and to his bedroom by the mouth and belt loops, which Numbers is *loving*. Everything is going awesome until Wrench flicks on the light and Numbers gets a load of his room and he sees that.... Wrench has spaceman sheets. And he very slightly loses it."_

Wrench feels a smile tugging at the lips he’s currently kissing, and a soft vibration skirts past his tongue and into his mouth. Numbers’ body is searing hot in his arms, his taste addictive, but Wrench is willing to part with his drug for a brief moment, if only to curiously ask  _What?_

It takes Numbers some time to compose himself; he shakes his head, trying to dissipate his laughter. Fuck, is that even a tear in his eye? Wrench doesn’t know if he should be offended, and about which part of him. Certainly not his dick—he could build a house with the amount of compliments he’s gotten for that. He’s always thought he was a good kisser, and Numbers hasn’t even felt his lips anywhere below the neck yet. So  _what_? Wrench repeats the question, and once Numbers’ hands stop shaking, he replies:

 _Nothing. Nothing. It’s just that I would have expected cowboys._ He gestures behind Wrench towards the bed. Oh. Now it’s become obvious. 

It had been so long since Wrench had trusted a guy enough to bring him back to his place for sex, he’d completely forgotten about the multicolored sheets with the floating spacemen on them. Not like he would have bothered changing them anyway—what does it matter to him what other men think about his taste in textiles? Besides, the only other set he has is light green and covered with cartoon frogs.  _I_ _like them_ , he replies, and goes back to tugging on Numbers’ belt loops.

But Numbers is resisting all of a sudden, almost as if he’s too embarrassed to fuck on what could clearly pass as a ten-year-old’s bed linens. Wrench reluctantly lets go, shooting Numbers an irritated glance.  _What’s the problem? Are my sheets making your dick soft?_ _  
_

_Does it look like it?_ Numbers places his hands on either side of his groin and pulls the material tight so Wrench can see the bulge there.  _I just think they’re a little childish. And stupid._

_They were two dollars at the Goodwill. Don’t worry, you won’t be able to see them once you’re on your back._

Numbers rolls his eyes and surveys the bed again.  _Don’t you have anything else?_

 _Forgive me if Your Highness wants to be fucked on black satin sheets, but that’s not going to happen._  Wrench tries to temper his anger; the way things are heading, their first time is going to end up a lot rougher than he’d planned.  _But I’ll take you out to the kitchen and bend you over the table if you don’t stop complaining._  He grins when he sees the distaste on Numbers’ face. He’s got him now.  _And when you’re eating your eggs and toast tomorrow, you can reminisce about how badly I made you moan—_

_Alright—_

_—how many times I made you come—_

_Alright! Enough—_

_—how the table shook as I rammed my cock into you over and over—_

_Enough, seriously!_

Wrench stops thrusting his hips angrily at Numbers and stifles a smile as the other strips off his shirt and moves past him to the bed. Numbers kicks off his shoes and stretches out across the spaceman sheets, crooking his index finger for Wrench to follow. Before Wrench can close the gap between them, Numbers smirks,  _Just don’t expect me to call you ‘M-A-J-O-R T-O-M.’_

With a quick laugh, Wrench leans in to kiss him. He thinks he might just fuck Numbers from behind tonight, so they can both get a good view of the sheets.


	3. Ring My...Knob?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamstralian - Explicit and ridiculous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/97902839050/letters-is-always-talking-in-on-hammer-and-aussie) _"Letters is always talking in on Hammer and Aussie doing weird shit. Like playing ring toss with their dicks. (Why is this in my brain.)"_

“Holy barrel of twats!”

Letters hadn’t meant it to come out that way; fuck knows she’d stumbled into far weirder and far more embarrassing situations over countless years and relationships. But in her defense, this is the first time any of those scenarios revolved around a game of Ring Toss.

“Hey there, Letters!” The Aussie grins and waves like nothing is out of the ordinary. Like he isn’t standing in the kitchen stark naked with two brightly-colored plastic rings settled at the base of his erect cock. Completely normal. “We got a bit bored while you were out getting your pretty little nails done, so…” He looks at the ring in his hand, then over at Hammer, who is almost as red as the lone circle swaying back and forth around his quivering dick. “So, this kind of happened.”

Hammer drops the rings he’d been holding and sheepishly scratches at the back of his head. “Well, we…at least I had the better aim.” When he realizes there’s still a ridiculous piece of plastic hanging from his boner, he shakes it off with a quick twist of his hips.

Letters tries to speak, but instead erupts into a fit of laughter. Great, as if gawking at the two as soon as she set foot in the door wasn’t bad enough. If her knee-jerk reaction turns them away from silly sex stuff in the future, Letters will never be able to forgive herself. “Wait, wait—” she gasps as the laughter starts to subside, “—this is amazing! Please tell me where you came up with this idea.”

Hammer shrugs, deferring to the Aussie. “I found a bunch of these buggers in the garage. Got a little curious, said What the fuck, mate, so I pull out my dick, just to see if it’ll fit. Hammer comes walking in, sees me fucking with ‘em, and I think, Why not have some fun? So I ask if he wants to play a round.”

“And you actually agreed?” Letters smirks over at Hammer, who seems to have softened a bit since she walked in. He shrugs again.

“He said the loser has to ride the winner’s cock for the second round while—”

Before he can even finish his sentence, Letters is in front of him, picking up the rings he’d dropped. “Well don’t let me stop you, darling.” She thrusts the clutch into Hammer’s hand and takes a step back. “Besides, every game needs a referee.”


	4. Countdown (to Blast Off)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit BJs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/98741377545/i-feel-like-you-will-take-all-of-my-nsfw) _"I feel like you will take all of my NSFW headcanons soo. . . While Wrench is pretty eager an enthusiastic at sucking cock, Numbers is much better, but he doesn't do it much, just when he's in the mood to tease Wrench when he has been complaining or being a complete dick. Wrench always feels both, blessed and cursed when it happens. ( Want more visuals?)"_

Two minutes is all it takes.  
  
Well, Wrench has never actually timed it, but two minutes seems like a fair estimate from the moment Numbers’ lips wrap around his cock until he’s tumbling over the edge, coming harder than he’d ever thought possible. Numbers is a fucking master at the art of giving head, leaving Wrench spent and breathless and barely able to stand in no time at all.  
  
Wrench will be craving it for days, weeks even, always a little disappointed when Numbers’ kisses stop short, or when he chooses to climb on top of him instead. Numbers’ ass is a fucking gift—tight and warm and open for business 24/7—but sometimes Wrench just longs for a good old-fashioned blowjob. Sweet and simple and oh so fucking sexy.  
  
But Numbers rarely goes for sweet and simple. He knows how good he is. He knows Wrench is completely at his mercy when he’s got him inside his mouth. And above all, he knows exactly how to exploit this knowledge.  
  
They’ll be in the car one day, heading out to another job, and Wrench will glance over and see Numbers running his tongue over his bottom lip repeatedly, almost seductively. Wrench will spend the rest of the drive hard and flustered, eager to get the job done and get to the prize that awaits him, the promise echoed in Numbers’ devious smile.  
  
When they finally complete their assignment, one of two things will happen. If Wrench has been well-behaved on the job, if he’s done what Numbers has asked of him with little argument and sass, Numbers will drop to his knees the instant the door to their motel room shuts behind them, swallowing him down with vigor. Between the hot slide of Numbers’ tongue on his cock and the scratch of bristly beard on his skin, Wrench is coming in no time flat, and before his pleasure-addled brain even knows what’s happening, he’s stumbling out of his clothing, relaxing into the mattress as he awaits the delicious burn of Numbers’ cock sliding into his throat or his ass, fucking him fast and hard.  
  
But if Wrench has been too bothersome, too annoying for Numbers’ taste, Numbers will prolong the game, make it so that Wrench almost has to beg for it. But Wrench is too stubborn and headstrong, and as Numbers presses gently into the soft skin between his thighs, Wrench thinks that must be the reason he tends to end up in the latter scenario.  
  
Or maybe Numbers just loves to torment him.  
  
His balls are aching, his cock swollen and leaking precome, and just the tip of Numbers’ tongue isn’t enough, but he keeps at it, slowly teasing up and down Wrench’s length with only the bare minimum of contact. Wrench wants nothing more than to grab the back of Numbers’ head, pull his face against his groin, to feel the steam of his breath and the scrape of his beard at the very least, but he knows from experience that would only prolong his frustration. When Numbers takes control, he does so at his own pace, and if Wrench even tries to speed things up, Numbers is prone to stop entirely. Wrench isn’t in the mood to jerk off tonight.  
  
The best he can do is thread his fingers through Numbers’ thick hair, massaging carefully while lips make their way down to his balls, tongue sweeping across sensitive flesh. He sucks lightly on one, and Wrench shuts his eyes and arches his back, gasping as he tries to keep his hips from rocking against that beard he loves so much. The warmth of Numbers’ mouth leaves him far too soon; the kisses placed along his shaft are too soft and fleeting. One last kiss just below the head of Wrench’s cock, and he pulls back completely, tapping against his hip. Wrench opens his eyes and jerks his head from the pillow, gazing down at the gorgeous man between his legs.  
  
_You’re too loud. Shut up or the whole motel will know what we’re doing._  
  
Wrench bites his lip.  _You know how to make me shut up._  
  
A grin spreads across Numbers’ face; he lifts an eyebrow and sinks back down, staring at Wrench as he grasps his cock and brings his lips to the tip. And that’s where he stops.  
  
Wrench feels like he might die if he doesn’t come soon. His face is burning, his chest flushed with sweat, his dick twitching as Numbers’ lips remain pressed to the head, unmoving. He holds Wrench’s gaze, waiting.  
  
He’s out of options. Though to be honest, he hadn’t many to begin with.  _Please. Please._  His hand is heavy against his chest.  
  
Numbers’ eyes seem to smile up at him in satisfaction; without further hesitation, his lips part, and he slowly takes Wrench into his mouth.  
  
It’s good, so fucking good that Wrench instantly forgets the agonizing foreplay. He throws his head back, his first instinct to thrust deep into that toe-curling heat, but Numbers grabs his hips and holds him still on the bed, sucking him down to the base. Wrench was close before, but now he’s completely gone. The way Numbers bobs around his cock, the way his tongue twists around the head and his nose nuzzles Wrench’s pubic hair is too much to bear. Every muscle in Wrench’s body seems to tense, and he comes deep in the back of Numbers’ throat, biting his lips in a half-assed attempt at keeping quiet. The noise doesn’t really matter to him, not when he can feel the dying tremors of his orgasm still pulsing through his limbs. It’s bliss, every second a gift that Wrench is blessed to have experienced.  
  
When he’s milked the last few drops from Wrench, Numbers releases him and slides up the bed, his fingertips tickling the side of Wrench’s ribs. Wrench turns his head to take in the sight of his partner: swollen-lipped, flushed, and looking like he’s enjoyed himself almost as much as Wrench.  _Good?_  he asks, smiling.  
  
Though his arms feel like cinderblocks and his hands shake like twigs, Wrench reaches for him, pulling him into a kiss. Numbers tastes like himself and Wrench at the same time, their flavors inseparable—just one more thing for which Wrench has to be grateful.  
  
_Thank you_ , he signs, once Numbers has drawn back far enough to read the motions of his hands.  _I love everything you do to me._  
  
In response, Numbers simply smiles and leans in for another kiss, pressing their bodies tightly together.


	5. Windows95 Tips & Tricks for Blowing Giant Dicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers, Ham Sandwich, Toolbox Gang - Explicit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/98744198765/the-first-numbers-deep-throats-wrench-he-gets-a) _"The first Numbers deep-throats Wrench, he gets a bit too enthusiastic, and all but loses his voice. Even worse, either Letters or the Aussie immediately figure out why and try to give him tips, based on their experience with Hammer. Numbers doesn't know what's worse - hearing about that guy's dick, or not being able to tell them to fuck off."_

“Now what was it that my aunt would use?” Letters chirps, pacing the living room carpet while stroking her chin like she’s the fucking Sherlock Holmes of sexual mysteries. Numbers rolls his eyes and sinks back against the couch cushions. He should have known better than to seek advice from the sideshow.  
  
“I think…green tea with a spoonful of honey!” She snaps her fingers triumphantly. “Auntie swore by it, and she would know. My sister and I used to call her the Queen of Kabukicho—she’d seen the inside of every love hotel in the district and had a dozen stories for each.” Her hand presses against her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Shit, you should have seen the look on mom’s face everytime Auntie opened her mouth to talk about the things that went in it. Guess she thought it was too inappropriate for a pair of ten-year-olds, but hey, it was far more entertaining than  _Goodnight Moon._ ”  
  
“Oi, you know what did the trick for me?” Aussie chimes in, settling down on the arm of the sofa beside Numbers. “Letters, doll, remember when you took us out to the bar that night? My throat was burnin’ something fierce, and you kept bringing me White Russians with extra ice. Knocked back a few o’them and I was back to myself in no time. Even got me on the karaoke machine later—‘Safety Dance,’ I think. A right good one, that song.” He looks primed to belt out a few lyrics, but thankfully Numbers is able to silence him with a quick wave of his hand. Aussie frowns and then continues, “Listen, just trust Letters on this. She’s good for it.”  
  
Letters grins. “Well, I have to take care of my boys. Besides, it was my fault for shoving your head down a little too hard on Hammer’s massive dick.”  
  
“No worries, Lets. It’s hard to resist something so thick and juicy.”  
  
Great, that asshole’s dick is exactly what he wants to hear about right now. Numbers sighs, covering his eyes with his hand. As if this conversation couldn’t get any more embarrassing.   
  
And then he feels the Aussie slap his shoulder. “But you and I both knew that already, right mate?”  
  
Numbers stands corrected; there’s always room for more embarrassment with these two. He tries groaning his irritation, but his scratched and parched throat absorbs the sound.  
  
“Poor darling.” Letters fixes him with her most compassionate stare, which coincidentally resembles the look she gives targets right before she crushes their balls beneath the heel of her boot. “Don’t worry, you’ll have your voice back in a few days. And, hey, at least you’ll know next time not to try swallowing Wrench’s dick all in one go. Live and learn, right?”  
  
For the love of all that is fucking holy, Numbers prays that this is the end of it. If he could speak, he’d tell Letters to stop talking about his boyfriend’s twin brother’s dick for five fucking minutes and make him some of her Auntie’s after-blowjob tea. But fuck if that woman doesn’t have a one-track mind.  
  
“If it’s any consolation, it took me some time to get used to having Hammer’s in my mouth. And if Wrench’s cock is anything like his brother’s…” She trails off, giggling, and Numbers exhales a pained breath. Unfortunately for him, the Aussie picks up where Letters left off.  
  
“It’s fuckin’ huge! I don’t think I’ve ever had one that big before—nothing personal, mate. I mean, yours is lovely, but Hammer’s—”  
  
“Fuck if I still can’t get my mouth around parts of it,” Letters adds. “And I’m the Queen of Cocksucking. After Auntie, of course.”  
  
“Oi, you know what I like to do?”  
  
The noise that escapes Numbers is halfway between a croak and a growl, and nowhere near enough to shut the Aussie up. For a moment, he reverts to signing, but the insults seem to go right over their heads. Fuck, if he could switch places with Wrench right now…  
  
“What I do is I wrap my fist around the base—right where it’s the thickest—and I start licking. Just up and down, all along the shaft. Really get it all nice and wet and sloppy. Then I put an inch or two in my mouth, work the head over real good with my tongue, y’know. And while I’m sucking, I take my hand and slide it around that long bugger, all slippery and such, nice and fast—and BAM!—I got a mouthful of spunk in no time.” He pats Numbers on the back. “Try that a few times until you get used to sword-swallowing.”  
  
“And remember to breathe,” comes the piece of advice from Mistress Letters, the Queen of Cocksucking. “Take it inch by inch—work yourself up to it over a few nights. Don’t neglect those firm, hairy balls. Give ‘em a good rub-down, suck ‘em a bit. It drives Hammer crazy; sometimes I don’t even need to go past the head.” She laughs. “But I know how hungry you get for cock, Numbers. Just take it slow until you can take it all.”  
  
“Practice makes perfect, eh mate?” The Aussie joins in Letters’ chuckling, and the two get so loud and raunchy, Numbers almost doesn’t catch the sound of the front door opening.  
  
“You guys partying?” Hammer enters first with Wrench close behind, and Numbers finds his gaze immediately drawn to the former’s crotch. Fuck. Thanks, Letters.

Hammer doesn’t seem to notice, though. He gives the three a quick look-over. “Well, at least everyone has their pants on.” Numbers can tell that comment is directed at him. Christ, you get caught once on a guy’s couch with his brother’s head in your lap and you’re automatically some kind of monster.  
  
“Hey, darling.” Letters pulls Hammer down for a quick kiss. “We were just about to make some green tea.” She flashes Numbers a wink and a smile before turning back to Hammer. “Want a cup?”  
  
He shrugs wordlessly and moves towards the kitchen. Letters and the Aussie follow, leaving Numbers and Wrench alone in the living room. Wrench stands by the door with his hands at his sides, staring at Numbers. Numbers wonders if Hammer had been able to tell something was bothering his brother the same way Letters and Aussie had picked apart his “It’s just a standard case of laryngitis” excuse. He doesn’t want to ask, though, so he starts with a simple, _How was the meeting with the boss?_  
  
Wrench cocks his head and gives a little shrug.  _OK. Job sounds easy. We leave tomorrow for two days._  He pauses, looks down at his feet and then back up at Numbers.  _Is your throat feeling any better?_  His face is creased with remorse, and Numbers can’t help feeling sorry for him. It’s not like this whole mess had been Wrench’s fault.  
  
_I’ll live,_  he says.  _But if I have to sit here and listen to these assholes for another minute, I might just be tempted to put myself out of my misery._ He leaves it at that, unwilling to divulge any details of the conversation.   
  
Wrench grins—one of Numbers’ favorite sights—and replies,  _Let’s go home, then. At least I can take care of you for a while before I leave._  
  
Numbers nods and stands up. When he looks down to button his coat, he’s nearly blinded by the tent pitched in his trousers. Fuck, all that talk of blowjobsand identical twin cocks must have gotten him worked up. Thankfully, Wrench has already turned to leave, and the surprise boner is easily concealed by Numbers’ overcoat. Even better, the rest of the gang is still off in the kitchen, carrying on like a pack of hyenas. They could make a seamless break for it, but Wrench pauses halfway through the door.  
  
_Should we stop at the store first for some lozenges or honey? I’ve never lost my voice before, so I don’t know how this works._  
  
_No. I think I know what might help, and we have plenty of it at home._  He signs quickly and then directs Wrench out of the apartment, grinning devilishly to himself as he wonders just how much of Wrench’s come he’ll have to drink to soothe his irritated throat, if that crazy idea of his will even work at all.  
  
But hey, it’s not like he has anything to lose by trying.


	6. Deep Dished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit sex and shirking of responsibilities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/98784102900/im-gonna-tell-you-a-sexy-wrenchers-headcanon-that) _"I'm gonna tell you a sexy wrenchers headcanon that I've had floating around in my head for AGES and that's Numbers at home washing dishes and Wrench deciding he going to fuck Numbers while he's washing 'em. I find that to be quite hot."_

Wrench’s eyes go wide as he enters the kitchen, nearly unbelieving of the scene he’s walked into.  
  
Numbers is standing in front of the sink, washing dishes. Numbers. Washing dishes. It’s like something out of  _The Twilight Zone_.  
  
He saunters over to the table and raps his knuckles on its surface to get his partner’s attention, having remembered something Numbers had told him once about the rush of water and how loud it could be.  
  
Numbers tilts his head, and when he sees Wrench, he shuts off the sink and turns to face him, wiping his hands on his apron. It’s a ridiculous article of clothing, really—neon green with the words “Grandma Loves to Grill” embroidered on the front—just one of the many useless things Numbers steals from their various jobs. Though, as Wrench looks him over, he imagines the eyesore might be more appealing if Numbers were to wear it with nothing else underneath. But expressing those kinds of thoughts are prone to get him a dirty look and a black eye, so he stands back and waits for Numbers to speak first.  
  
_Did you get the part for the dishwasher?_  
  
Wrench shakes his head.  _The store said they would have to order it. Might take a few days._  
  
He doesn’t need to hear to know that whatever Numbers is muttering under his breath is most likely a string of obscenities. His hands twist briefly in his apron before he signs,  _Screw it, let’s just call the landlord and get a plumber in here._  
  
_They’ll still need to order the right part, stupid,_  Wrench scowls.  _And we are not letting a plumber in here, not with the way you leave your guns just laying around. I found one on top of the toilet tank last week. What the hell was it doing there?_  
  
Numbers scrunches up his face like the answer should be obvious.  _It’s for protection._  
  
_Protection?_  Wrench laughs.  _You think you’re T-R-A-V-O-L-T-A in **Pulp Fiction**? Getting gunned down in the can?_  
  
There’s the obligatory eye-roll, and then Numbers changes the topic.  _Look, I just want the dishwasher fixed. You know I hate doing the dishes._  
  
_It wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t let them pile up._  He resists the urge to add,  _You huge fucking princess._  
  
_Then maybe you should wash them._  
  
_Fuck you! It’s your turn. I do everything else around here._  
  
_Fine. Go fuck off and let me finish_ , he huffs, then turns back to the dishes. But Wrench can’t leave now, not when Numbers is frustrated and annoyed. Not with the way his ass looks in that pair of dark blue jeans he sometimes wears around the apartment. Wrench licks his lips and creeps up behind him.  
  
Numbers jerks when Wrench’s arms wrap around his waist, says something that Wrench can feel through his chest as he presses their bodies close together. There are hands moving, splashing water onto the counter—a feeble struggle to pull away. They still once Wrench dips his head and begins mouthing kisses along the side of Numbers’ neck.  
  
The vibrations he now feels thrum with lust and pleasure; Wrench can tell by the way Numbers’ pulse races under his lips, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He nips lightly at Numbers’ earlobe and rocks his hips forward so Numbers can feel the erection straining at his jeans. Numbers presses back a little, and Wrench takes that as an invitation to slide his hands under the apron towards the front of Numbers’ pants. Numbers reaches to stop him, but Wrench seizes his wrist with one hand, shoving it back into the sink, deep below the soapy water. With the other, he unbuckles Numbers’ belt and pops the button of his jeans.  
  
He’s just pulled down the zipper when he feels a few drops of water hit his face. Wrench recoils enough for Numbers to twist his body around.  
  
_Really? We’re doing this now? Here?_  
  
Wrench smirks.  _Don’t you have dishes to wash?_  
  
Whatever irritated glare Numbers throws his way dissolves the instant Wrench’s hand dives into his pants and grips his semi-erect cock. His eyes squint, his lips pouting into a small “O.” Wrench exhales a breathless laugh and spins him around quickly, slamming him against the sink. He knows from experience that playing rough only makes his partner more aroused, more desperate for him. Wrench gives Numbers’ crotch a quick squeeze, chuckling when he feels how hard he’s become.  
  
He’s able to slide down Numbers’ jeans and underwear with ease, and wastes little time running his hands up the inside of Numbers’ thighs, reaching between his legs to tease his balls with just the tips of his fingers. Numbers tenses as Wrench’s lips brush the curve of his ass; he relaxes as Wrench starts to kiss and suck the flesh there, slowly migrating to the little divot just above his crack. And when he pries Numbers’ cheeks apart to lap at the sensitive pucker between them, Wrench swears he can feel his partner’s moans pulsing just beneath his lips.  
  
Wrench loves the way Numbers tastes, loves how Numbers shivers whenever he slips his tongue inside his asshole. He loves how he can kiss almost anywhere on Numbers’ body and end up with a mouthful of hair. Fuck, Wrench could make a meal of him, spend the entire day sampling each and every flavor. But Numbers would never allow it—he’s far too impatient and needy, and when Wrench feels the splash of more water against his skin followed by a warm, wet hand tugging at his hair, he pulls away, as eager as Numbers for what’s coming next. He gazes up and sees Numbers staring back as far as his neck will allow, the message on his face clear as day, though his gasping lips and trembling hands are unable to form the words.  
  
When they get like this, words aren’t needed anyway.  
  
Wrench nods to him as he stands, then hurries off to the bedroom for lube. By the time he makes it back to the kitchen, Numbers is already bent over the sink, working his ass open with two slippery fingers. Wrench can’t help but laugh, and Numbers turns his head at whatever sound Wrench makes, grinning wide as he slowly pumps in and out of himself. It’s one hell of a show, and Wrench is racing to get his jeans open and his cock slicked up with lube. He needs to be inside Numbers right fucking now.  
  
He shoves Numbers hard against the sink again, slapping his ass with his cock a few times to tease him even more. Numbers responds by reaching behind him and grasping the base of Wrench’s dick, lining it up so Wrench can easily push inside. Wrench would be a fool to argue with that kind of persuasion.  
  
Numbers is as tight and hot as ever; once Wrench is fully nestled inside, he holds still for a minute, simply enjoying the throb around his cock, the swell of Numbers’ breathing against his chest. And then he begins to move, thrusting slowly at first, then faster as Numbers grinds back, their hips colliding with a stinging slap of skin-on-skin. Wrench lets him take control, loosening his grip on Numbers’ waist and sliding a hand around to stroke his cock beneath that fuck ugly apron. He lays his other palm gently across Numbers’ throat, running it over the stubble, pressing down just enough to feel his moans.  
  
Numbers takes care of the rest. He gyrates his hips wildly, his hands sloshing around in the sink as he tries to steady himself. Water soaks the apron and the front of Wrench’s pants—a deluge of lust and madness brought on by the stupid fucking fantasy of a domesticated Numbers. It’s all too much, bombarding every sense, and Wrench is coming inside him, face pressed to Numbers’ hair, the thick mane swallowing his exhilarated cries. He tightens his grip on Numbers’ dick, stroking faster until Numbers arches his back and spills hot and sticky into his hand.

Once Wrench catches his breath, once his thoughts and his pulse settle, he realizes how lucky he is that Numbers’ apron took the brunt of their mess. If Numbers bitched this much about having to clean dishes, just what would he have to say about come-splattered cabinets and counters?  
  
The thing is hideous, anyway. Wrench slips the loop over Numbers’ head and then manages to untie the knot at the back with one hand. Numbers is too wrecked by the impromptu sex to know what’s happening until Wrench is easing out of him, running the rough fabric of the apron between Numbers’ legs as he sops up the remnants of their encounter. When Wrench is finished, he thrusts the balled-up neon come-rag into Numbers’ shaking arms.  
  
_I’ll take over doing the dishes if you do laundry._  
  
Numbers grimaces and shoves the apron into the sink, splashing water in all directions.  _Fuck you. I really liked that thing._  
  
Wrench is still a bit breathless as he signs,  _That thing was awful. I did you a favor. And yes, you can ride me later as a Thank you._  Numbers’ frown only seems to deepen, but Wrench quickly adds,  _Unless you want to show your gratitude by doing **more**  dishes._  
  
He grins, knowing full well what Numbers’ answer will be. And if the hardware store takes a little longer to get the part they need…well, Wrench certainly wouldn’t complain about it.


	7. Laundry Games (May the Towels be Ever in Your Favor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ham Sandwich - Explicit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/99429700355/i-was-also-thinking-about-ham-samdwich-today-and) _"I was also thinking about Ham Samdwich today and this old episode of 30 Rock that I love, where Jenna and her Jenna boyfriend become really domestic and get freaked out and have to find new ways to kink their lives back up, so they start "normaling" by, like, buying bath towels and then go have sex and talk about bath towels. So for Ham Sandwich, after they’ve been together for awhile and a lot of the tension and manipulation and energy that was there in the beginning has died down, the three of them would settle into a comfortable routine and become increasingly domestic. Eventually someone notices and they get all freaked out, like, oh my god what is happening is this even working anymore? But they wouldn’t want to split up. So I could totally see them “normaling”, like, making all their domestic habits and chores reeeeally competitive and trying to sex up things like washing dishes and writing up grocery lists."_

“Ready…set…GO!” Letters sits naked atop the washing machine, gleefully kicking the front with her heels as she watches the cellar light gleam across the nude backs of Hammer and the Aussie. Their muscles roll furiously as they fight for counter space, folding laundry as fast as possible. Letters grins and decides to give them a little encouragement. “Come on, boys! FOLD FOLD FOLD! I wanna see all my panties in perfect little triangles! Remember, whoever cleans up first is the first to get dirty!”

Hammer grumbles as a piece of clothing slips from his grasp and tumbles to the floor. With a devious little smirk, Letters opens the front door of the washing machine and pulls out a damp towel. She holds the ends between her hands and quickly twists before— _CRACK!_ —the towel connects with Hammer’s bare buttocks, drawing a sharp yelp out of him. The Aussie laughs, and Letters winds up for a second strike. 

“You boys are taking too long!”

Aussie jumps when the towel hits him, and a pair of socks goes flying. “Christ, Lets! My knob’s hard enough as it is without you breaking out the whips and cuffs.”

“Then quit fucking around and finish the laundry so we can finally get to  _fucking around_.” She stuffs the wet towel back into the washer and kicks the door shut. “Do you two need more motivation?” Letters chuckles and leans back, spreading her legs wide. Her hand slinks down her front, across her stomach and through neatly-trimmed pubic hair. When her fingers brush her swollen clit, she lets out a gasp. It’s loud enough to make Aussie turn his head.

"Fuck,” he breathes before diving back into the laundry basket, arms trembling as he works faster than before. 

Letters half-laughs, half-moans even louder, plunging a finger inside her wet cunt. “Hurry up! Dinner’s getting cold!” Squirming, she adds a second finger and begins pumping them in and out at an excruciatingly slow pace. “Ah, fuck…if I come before you boys are finished, we’ll have to hold a dishwashing contest to see which one of you gets to top. Does that sound fun?” she purrs, pulling out and turning circles over her clit with her juicy fingertips. “I know how hot you boys get…thinking about fucking each other…mmmm…just try not to drip all over the clean cl—”

" _Done!"_  Aussie shouts, slamming a stack of folded laundry down into the empty basket in front of him. He spins around and nudges Hammer’s thigh with his hard cock, though Hammer seems too tangled up in a pile of checkered shirts to be a good sport about it. 

"Shit, I suck at this game,” Hammer grumbles. “Can’t we play something else?”

“Don’t be a sore loser, darling.” Letters licks her fingers clean and then crooks one at the Aussie. “Winner gets first fuck.” He doesn’t need to be told twice; two seconds and he’s got Letters on her back atop the washer, bending over to press his face between her thighs. She closes her eyes and giggles as his tongue wriggles like a fish inside her pussy. When she opens them again, she sees poor Hammer standing beside her, stroking his cock with a dejected look on his face.

“Aw, don’t look so upset, Hammy.” She beckons him closer. “Why don’t you come on my tits this time? Give Aussie something to clean up while he’s fucking me.”

At that, Hammer grins and pumps his cock faster, positioning himself for the money shot. Letters stretches her legs over the Aussie’s shoulders and relaxes against the cool surface of the washing machine. 

“Let’s try to make this quick, boys,” she moans. “I’m sure we’re not the only ones in the building who need to use the laundry room today.”


	8. The Ol' Slippery Nipple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit nipple play and furriness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/99673257915/numbers-has-really-tiny-nipples-they-are-so-tiny) _"Numbers has really tiny nipples. They are so tiny that Wrench has to move his chest hair out of the way just to see them (which he does often)"_

_Why do you like playing with them so much?_

Wrench rakes his fingers through the thick hair on Numbers chest, his lips quirking into a smile at the way Numbers’ entire body seems to tense beneath him when his thumbs find the tiny nubs hidden under all that dark fuzz. He leans back a little, just enough to get a better view, and to feel the hard, hot throb of Numbers’ cock against his ass. Below, Numbers lies prone on the mattress, eyes burning into Wrench as if he’s expecting an answer to such a silly question. Wrench would much rather busy his hands with his partner’s “hidden treasures” (as he likes to call them), but for the sake of not pissing Numbers off, he gives them both one last pinch before replying,  _I just like them._ And then he’s back at it, parting the sea of chest hair until the two darkened circles are in full view, his mouth watering in anticipation. 

There’s a tap on his arm. He turns his gaze back to Numbers’ face, watching the unsteady movement of his hands.  _Why? I’m curious._

Wrench shrugs.  _I just told you._ Numbers rolls his eyes at that, and Wrench adds,  _Why does it matter?_   _I never ask you why you’re so fascinated with my turtleneck._

Numbers flashes him a wide, toothy grin, reaching down to run his thumb over the sheathed head of Wrench’s cock. Wrench gasps and leans into the touch, but Numbers pulls his hand away after only a few light, teasing strokes.  _Of course I’m fascinated with it. I don’t have one of my own._ _  
_

_So I can’t enjoy your nipples because I’ve got my own set?_ Wrench throws him an incredulous look.

_No, I meant_ _—_ his hands fumble— _I meant, it’s not like they’re so different. Not like a woman’s breasts._

Of course. Wrench laughs to himself at his lapse in common sense, his inability to see through Numbers’ veil of questions. This whole inquiry is simply Numbers just being Numbers: Getting fucked in the ass on a regular basis doesn’t make him feel like less of a man, but enjoying having his tits squeezed, and his nipples pinched and sucked apparently crosses some overly-effeminate line? Go figure.

He can’t understand how Numbers’ brain works sometimes, but he does know that he has to tread lightly if he doesn’t want to end up with blue balls and an aching back from spending a sleepless night on the sofa.  _No, they’re better._ It isn’t a lie. Wrench had been with women before, and though he could probably count his experiences all on one hand, he can say with certainty that he was never much of a boob-man.  _  
_

Numbers won’t quit, though.  _How?_  he asks.  _Why?_

Wrench resists the urge to slap him, and instead sits back and pretends to think. He can instantly come up with a thousand reasons why he loves this neurotic asshole’s little nubs of fun, the most obvious being the way Numbers squirms whenever he flicks his fingers or tongue across one. They’re incredibly sensitive, and by the time Wrench has had his fill of teasing them, Numbers’ cock is gushing precome, his stomach glistening with the sticky mess. And suddenly Wrench can’t remember ever having felt so thirsty in his life.

They’re also adorably tiny, so small they’re easily lost beneath Numbers’ thick chest hair. Wrench will sometimes make a game of finding them, closing his eyes and nuzzling around until he feels one tickling his nose or lips. Other times, he’ll drag his nails though the fur, smirking when he feels Numbers jump at the lightest scratch. He gets an even greater reaction whenever he traps one between his teeth.

There are other things he likes about them: Their pinkish-brown tint, the shape of the areolae, the sensation of them inside his mouth, their taste like sweat and skin—the essence of Numbers.

Above all, he likes them  _because they’re Numbers_. They belong to Numbers, and since Numbers shares every part of himself with Wrench, in some way they belong to Wrench as well. Wrench couldn’t possibly be more grateful for Numbers’ generosity. 

But Wrench can’t say any of those things to him, so he chooses the answer least likely to make Numbers lash out in unnecessary indignation.  _I like them because when I touch them, I can feel your breathing through your chest. When I suck them, I can feel your heartbeat and your voice. I like that and it makes me happy._ There. Now Numbers can use Wrench as an excuse for getting off on nipple play. Surely, if his boyfriend likes it so much, who is he to argue?

Numbers laughs, seemingly satisfied with Wrench’s words.  _In that case, hurry up and get to sucking._

A smile flits across Wrench’s face; happy to oblige, he bends down and presses his lips to one of Numbers’ nipples. As he sucks, he sweeps his tongue back and forth, feeling Numbers moan and stiffen in his mouth. When Numbers places a hand on Wrench’s head to urge him on, Wrench is struck with a filthy new idea.

He pulls away, leaving Numbers looking confused and wanting. The crease on his forehead only deepens when Wrench moves forward, straddling his chest. With a grin and a breathless laugh, Wrench grasps the shaft of his cock, slowly rolling back the skin until the slick head is completely free of its “turtleneck.” Then, he pushes down and swipes the tip across one of Numbers’ nipples.

Numbers shuts his eyes, sucking a breath between pursed lips. Just watching his reaction makes Wrench’s cock twitch; he repeats the motion, teasing in tight circles, his precome matting the hair on Numbers’ chest. After a minute or two, he moves to the other, working faster, tit-fucking him until both nipples are nice and slippery. Numbers looks close to wrecked as it is; Wrench can only imagine the face his partner makes when he eases back and dips his head again to slide his tongue over one, lapping up the mess he’s made.

Numbers’ back arches, his chest purring with pleasant vibrations, causing Wrench’s cock to ache with a new-found sense of urgency. The feel of Numbers’ voice, the brush of hair against his tongue, the salty taste of his own arousal—it’s all so overwhelming, pushing him to the breaking point…

He’s grounded by two sharp tugs to his hair. Wrench jolts upright, licking the moisture from his lips and breathing heavily as he stares at the flushed and trembling man beneath him. His mind is foggy, unsure of what to do next, but after a moment, Numbers manages to compose himself and provides him with the answer:  _Please_ ,  _let me ride you, so you can do that while your cock is inside me._

Part of Wrench wants to burst out laughing, to mock Numbers for being so impossible sometimes, so ridiculously self-conscious. Instead, he takes Numbers by the hand and pulls him into a sitting position, kissing him as if those lips were his only source of sustenance. 

Wrench has far better things to do with his hands and mouth tonight.


	9. Hammy Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamstralian, Solo Letters - Explicit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/100111641059/how-about-writing-apiece-about-aussie-and-letters) _"How about writing apiece about Aussie and Letters apart? Letters is away on holiday bored to death. By accident, she scooped Aussie's favourite t-shirt. Scent reminds her of him and she gets carried away by a very fuckabilistic fantasy."_

At the end of the day, there wasn’t much else to do but get drunk.

Sure, Letters could have easily seduced the hot guy by the pool, or his equally hot girlfriend…but it just hadn’t seemed fair to enjoy all the fun of group sex without her two boys back home, even if Aussie had given her a “Free Fuck Pass” for the week, and Hammer had begrudgingly agreed.

So in the end, she pounded Mai-Tais at the cabana and stumbled back to her room long before the sky had begun to darken.

She barely managed to strip off her bikini without breaking a limb. Fortunately, the floor wasn’t as hard as it looked.

“Ffffuck…” she grumbled, rolling onto her stomach. It was such bullshit that Fargo always let Numbers and Wrench vacation together, but when the three of them wanted some shared time off, suddenly the whole fucking syndicate was too busy to spare more than a few days for  _one person only_.

“‘Uhhhhh…but I’m his interpreter…’” Letters babbled into the carpet, affecting her best “Bearded Asshole” voice. “‘You have to let us both go, otherwise how will he be able to order himself breakfast after I spend the whole night fucking him in the ass?’ Fucking nutsack banana-cream-pie motherfucker…” Any coherent thought was lost as she pushed herself to her feet and strode the five or six steps over to where her suitcase was resting. She threw the top open and dug around inside, hoping to find her cell phone in her inebriated state. 

“Don’t even fucking think about calling to check in, love,” was what the Aussie had told her before she left. “Just enjoy your holiday. Hammy and I will be waiting right here for you when you get back.”

Shit, she missed those two more than anything. How could she break their hearts by calling and letting on that she was having a miserable time?

Instead, she fished out an oversized jersey and threw it on before flopping onto the bed. For a brief moment, she wondered if she could get away with sleeping for the rest of the trip. If she wasn’t conscious, she couldn’t really miss her boys, right? She took a deep breath, relaxing into the mattress. 

That’s when she noticed the scent.

Of course. How could she have missed it? Since when did she own any green and gold shirts? The Australian Rugby League Kangaroos were a far cry from her beloved Denver Broncos. She choked out a laugh at her own ignorance.

In her haste to pack, she’d mistakenly grabbed one of Aussie’s shirts from the laundry. And it still smelled of hair gel and Drakkar Noir.

Letters’ hands twisted in the hem of the shirt. What was her beloved Oz doing right now? Was he stuck working overtime, filing paperwork all by his lonesome? Was he sitting comfortably beside Hammer, keeping him company while he watched  _Wheel of Fortune_? 

Was he running his hand up Hammer’s thigh, pressing him against the arm of the sofa as he worked his mouth open with his tongue?

She felt her face flush at that last thought, her hands untangling from the shirt to rest calmly on her stomach. 

They didn’t stay there for long. 

It was impossible to think of anything else after that; Letters wasn’t sure she even wanted to try. She shut her eyes and saw the two of them—Aussie sinking onto the floor in front of Hammer, sliding his hands beneath his ass so he could remove his jeans and underwear, Hammer’s cock hard and leaking as Aussie wrapped his lips around it…

She pushed the shirt up around her chest, enjoying the scrape of the fabric over her nipples. She left it to bunch just above her breasts, allowing plenty of room for squeezing and fondling. Her legs spread of their own accord, almost as if the scene in her head was happening right in front of her, and her turn with one or both men was rapidly approaching. Letters moaned as her fingers found her throbbing clit.

What else might her boys get up to while she was away? Well, by now Hammer would probably be growing restless, tugging Aussie’s hair and groaning that it wasn’t enough just having that chatty little tongue working his cock. And Aussie would be more than happy to oblige. He’d most likely have brought the lube along with him, anticipating a night of rough, sticky sex. He might have even prepared himself first, his asshole slick and well-stretched beneath his tight pants.

That’s exactly what he’d do, Letters decided. He’d hurry out of his clothes and onto Hammer’s lap, sliding his juicy ass over that thick cock. And Hammer would give his cheeks a good slap or two before grabbing Aussie’s hips and easing him down onto his length. He’d groan as Aussie’s ass swallowed him up, lost in how amazingly hot and wet it felt.

Letters found she was just as wet; two fingers slipped inside with ease. She worked them in and out quickly, her free hand taking turns pinching at her nipples. The way her mind was racing with filthy fantasies, she knew she wouldn’t be able to last very long.

And certainly Hammer wouldn’t either. Not with the way Aussie was riding him, legs wrapped tightly around his waist. 

“Yeah, you love that, big fella. Love splitting my arse open with that giant knob, don’t ya?” Aussie wouldn’t be able to shut up. He’d spout off the raunchiest things he could think of while working his hips faster, angling himself so that Hammer’s cock slammed into his prostate with each thrust. “That’s it, big boy. Come inside me. I’m gonna make you lick it all out afterwards.”

“ _SHITSHITSHIT…_ “ It was as far as Letters got before she clamped down on her fingers and came hard. She lay there, panting, enjoying the last spasms of her orgasm. And then, with her hand still between her legs, her fingers still deep in her twitching pussy, Letter got a beautifully dirty idea. 

Aussie had said she couldn’t call to check on them. But he mentioned nothing about calling for phone sex, though. 


	10. All Up in Your Seam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Mature but not terribly dirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/100115105089/numbers-gets-blood-on-one-of-his-pairs-of-pants) _"Numbers gets blood on one of his pairs of pants during a hit, and he needs to go get a new pair. Wrench goes along with him to the tailor, but Wrench has never been to a tailor before and is shocked at how up-close and personal the guy is getting to Numbers. Wrench knows he shouldn't be jealous- the tailor is just doing his job, but that job just happens to be measuring his boyfriend's inseam... He tries to shrug it off but afterwards Numbers can tell something's wrong."_

Wrench would readily admit that he was the jealous type.

It was a frequent cause for argument, whenever the job required Numbers to dial up the charm and get a little flirtatious with whatever woman or man held the information they were seeking. One that stung afresh with each new occurrence, despite the amount of explanation and reassurance and angry make-up sex that followed.

He tried his best to control it, for Numbers’ peace of mind. The last thing he’d ever want was to drive away the man he loved more than anything else.

But that asshole was really pushing it.

Wrench stood by the shop window and watched the older, yet still fairly attractive man stretch the cloth measuring tape along the inside of Numbers’ leg, fuming at how close his hand was to his partner’s crotch. He was certain he’d be punching the fucker if he hadn’t the common sense to dig his fists into his jacket pockets. 

 _It might seem a little weird to you, but please don’t get offended and for the love of god please don’t cause a scene._ Numbers had given him a warning, albeit a vague one, before they arrived, but it did little to soothe Wrench’s anger. 

Why the fuck couldn’t Numbers just buy his pants from the Goodwill like Wrench did? At least the employees there didn’t make a habit of grabbing their customers’ junk.

But no, he  _had_  to go to a fancy-ass fucking tailor. And now Wrench was forced to suffer quietly while this guy felt up his boyfriend like they were in some low-budget porno—the kind that usually involved crooked cops and surprise prostate exams.

Turning Numbers’ words over in his head had been little help; by the time they made it back to Numbers’ place, Wrench was still pissed off, so much so he initially refused the invitation to come inside. Only after Numbers tugged his hand and flashed him his most sympathetic look did Wrench finally relent.

The instant he was through the door, Wrench headed straight for the kitchen and helped himself to a beer from the fridge. He hadn’t the chance to open it, though, before Numbers snatched it from his hand and placed it back where he’d found it.  _What the hell is your problem?_

 _Nothing._ Wrench tried not to make eye contact, but he had a feeling Numbers already sensed what was up.

 _Bullshit. I saw you sulking back at the tailor’s._ _You were glaring at the guy so hard, I thought he would he burst into flames._

Wrench bit his lip, hesitated.  _I_ _didn’t like the way he was touching you._

Numbers rolled his eyes so hard, his entire body seemed to move with them.  _I fucking knew it! You always get like this! I never should have let you come with me._

 _Why?_ Wrench scoffed. _So you could be alone with him when he gave you your happy ending?_

_Are you that dense? He was just doing his job._

_Did you like it? Did it get you hard?_

_NO. I told you_ —

But Wrench silenced his thought by shoving him hard against the wall. Before Numbers could fight back, Wrench swooped down and pressed his lips to the side of his neck. He pinned him there as his kisses grew rougher, sucking and biting until all of Numbers seemed to tremble and thrum with vibrations. 

His hand roamed the space between Numbers’ legs, gently traveling the length of his thigh, repeating the same motions he’d seen at the tailor’s. Numbers relaxed, slumping back against the kitchen wall, and Wrench reached up to cup his crotch.

He instantly jerked his hand back. 

_Liar. You’re half hard right now._

_Obviously. Because you’re kissing and teasing me._ Numbers was breathing heavy, shaking as he signed. _Forgive me if I get turned on by having my boyfriend’s lips and hands all over my body._

 _Why should I believe you? You’re probably still thinking about getting groped by that man,_ Wrench huffed. He ground the heel of his hand against Numbers’ groin, feeling him swell and thicken with each increasingly harsher stroke.

Numbers bit out an obscenity or two as he squirmed beneath Wrench’s ministrations. He futilely tugged at Wrench’s wrists, eventually resorting to punching him in the shoulder so he would back off enough to give his hands the space they needed to speak.  _No, really._ _How can I possibly dumb this down for you?_

Wrench jumped in with an insult of his own, but Numbers turned his back, even went as far as shutting his eyes when Wrench tried to force him around. He continued swatting away Wrench’s prods and pokes until Wrench eventually lowered his hands. Then, Numbers looked up at him and, with a completely straight face, asked,  _Do you get hard when the dentist sticks his fingers in your mouth?_

 _What?_  Wrench chuckled in confusion.  _Of_ _course not._

He wagged his eyebrows at him _. But you do whenever **I** stick my fingers in your mouth. _

_Yeah…only because I know you’re going to put them in my ass afterwards._

Numbers spread his arms in apparent triumph. _Now do you see what I mean? **I** don’t get off on having my measurements taken the same as  **you**  don’t cream your jeans each time you get your pretty teeth polished. _

Fuck. Despite his burning anger, Wrench had to admit that Numbers presented a compelling argument. He sighed, and gave a defeated nod.  _You’re right. I’m sorry for acting out. I know the guy was just doing his job._ He paused, then added,  _But it still bothers me to watch other people touch you like that._

With the highest level of patience Wrench had ever seen him exhibit, Numbers calmly pushed himself onto his toes and planted a sweet kiss on his lips, smoothing his thumb over Wrench’s cheek. It caught Wrench by surprise, and he didn’t have the chance to reciprocate before Numbers was pulling away.  _You know I’m yours_ , he said.  _And I’ll always be yours, even though you can be a huge idiot and you sometimes act like a jealous teenager. You drive me crazy, but I love you, you asshole._

Wrench laughed and rested his hands on Numbers’ waist. He moved in for another kiss, but Numbers wasn’t finished yet. 

 _Look, let’s just skip the arguing next time. I’ve got more exciting ways to remind you that you’re the only one._ With that, he grinned and strode off in the direction of the bedroom, enticing Wrench with a lusty glance over his shoulder.

He knew better than to keep Numbers waiting.


	11. Moons Over My Ham Sandwich (or Toolbox Grand Slam)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toolbox Gang - pretty SFW Denny's shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/100118589818/okay-now-i-need-a-toolbox-gang-fic-where-they-all) _"Okay now I need a toolbox gang fic where they all meet for the first time at a Denny's at 3 in the morning. Letters was at a wild party and needs something to eat before heading home. Numbers just finished a hit and he's starving cause he hasn't eaten since breakfast. Hammer and Wrench are drifting from town to town doing odd jobs and they just got left last town and they stop for coffee on their way to the next place. Aussie got kicked out of the west coast and he's on the run."_

“So that bitch Selma, she tells me she can’t come out for waffles tonight because she just found out she’s diabetic. And I was like, Yeah right, skank! I saw your ass go to town on a whole fuckin’ chocolate cake just the other day!”  
  
“Shaa, fuckin’ pig.”  
  
Letters groans into her mug of coffee, but it isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the nasal whine of the two girls at the counter next to her. There’s a slow ache bubbling in her head, riding in on a haze of alcohol and sup-par marijuana. She’s spiraling fast, and if her food doesn’t arrive soon, she feels she might just puke all over the place. If all else fails, she tells herself she’ll aim for the annoying girls.  
  
It’s two minutes past 3AM, and she’s had enough of the mindless chatter about boys and birth control and how Selma’s tits are lopsided. It feels like every muscle in her back wants to tear off and take a well-deserved vacation, but she manages to twist around in her seat. “‘Scuse me?”  
  
They both turn to face the stranger beside them, one absentmindedly twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. Neither speak, only stare, and Letters wonders which part of her shocks them the most. Is it the half-white, half-purple hair? The glittery blue crop top? Or maybe it’s the pair of short-shorts that offer a lovely view of the zombie Virgin Mary tattoo on her thigh?  
  
That last one, she thinks groggily, that must be it. She flashes the pair a crooked smile. “Heyyyy, did you ladies order the pancakes?” When they turn to each other in confusion, Letters leans in, brandishing the knife that came with her place setting. “‘Caussse I’m gonna turn your faces ‘nto fuckin’ pancakes if you don’t get the fffuck outta my sight.”  
  
The weapon she holds is a pathetic excuse for a butter knife, and the girls look even more dumbfounded until Letters rolls her eyes and fumbles for the switchblade hidden in her bra. Once they catch a glimpse of  _that_ , they’re up off their asses and scrambling for the door.  
  
A moment later, the waiter appears from the kitchen and places a stack of pancakes in front of Letters. He glances at the two empty seats but doesn’t seem to give much of a fuck. Letters grumbles under her breath about “ignorant fucking twats,” and then dives into her meal, too hungry to bother with butter or syrup.  
  
She’s too preoccupied with filling her stomach to notice someone sliding onto the stool to her left, taking the place of one of the ignorant twats. Christ, the whole fucking counter is empty, and this asshole has to pick the seat next to hers? She can’t do much threatening with her mouth full, so she opts to turn her head and shoot him an angry glare instead.  
  
The guy’s well-dressed for a shithole like Denny’s, that’s for damn sure. Full suit and tie, nicely groomed hair and beard—he’s actually pretty damned attractive. At least a 7 or 8 on her fuckability scale. But he’s twitching like crazy as he orders the Grand Slam with extra bacon and toast. Figures the hot guy would have a habit.  
  
Still, he is hot, and she’s somewhat drunk, so Letters thinks Why the fuck not? Of course, when she opens her mouth to introduce herself, the first thing that comes out is, “The fuck you tweakin’ on, man?” followed by a thick, pancakey laugh.  
  
…  
  
Numbers isn’t sure what to make of that question. Hell, he isn’t sure what to make of the colorful woman in general. He briefly considers asking what her rate is, but the last time he mistook someone for a prostitute,  he ended up with two black eyes and one less pair of pants.  
  
He decides not to press his luck with this one. She looks like she could be a fun time, but, fuck, Numbers is so exhausted, he’s not 100% certain he could even get it up. Leave it to Fargo to send him three fucking states over to collect from some piss-ant scum who—like most of the scumbags they lend money to—had spent every last cent on cocaine and strippers. Shit, he wishes he had a hit of coke right now. He hasn’t slept in at least 24 hours, and can’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything other than a bag of Scrunyuns while on the road. Numbers fears he’ll pass out if he doesn’t get something in his stomach. Or worse, Fargo will call and demand he head back immediately, bacon or not.  
  
His fingers tap anxiously on the counter. He reaches for the mug of coffee in front of him, but changes his mind halfway there. Beside him, the woman continues to chow down on her pancakes, packages of syrup untouched. Numbers feels his stomach growl.  
  
“Does it—did it take long for your food to show up?”  
  
She mumbles something indecipherable around a mouthful of pancake, not even bothering to look up.  
  
The fuck is her problem? “You just get in from the circus?” Numbers scowls.  
  
_That_  gets her attention. She turns, fork crammed into her mouth, and shoots daggers at him while spitting something that vaguely resembles “party.”  
  
OK, sure, that would explain things. Doesn’t mean Numbers is going to stop fucking with her, though. “Reunion at the psych ward or…”  
  
He isn’t sure if the noise she makes is a laugh or if she’s choking on her pancakes. She jabs the fork in his direction and replies with something that sounds like “bachelor” or “bachelorette,” and Numbers nods, thinking the first sounds a lot more plausible based on the way she’s dressed. He considers asking her rate again, but quickly clamps his lips shut when she brandishes her butter knife and makes a series of gestures that can only be interpreted as “I will cut your balls off.”  
  
Fuck it. Numbers can’t be bothered with some crazy bitch right now. Not when he catches sight of the two tall men shuffling into the seats beside him.  
  
His jaw almost drops.  
  
They both look ridiculous, like they stepped out of some John Wayne movie with those tacky fringe jackets, cowboy boots and matching muttonchops—a sure boner-killer for most guys. But all Numbers can think of is one thing: Twins.  
  
It’s always been a fantasy of his, definitely in the top five on his bucket list. He doesn’t even care if they’re male or female; he just wants to be sandwiched between those two hot bodies.  
  
Numbers takes back what he said about being too tired to get it up. He can feel the blood rushing to his cock as he tries not to stare too long.   
  
He watches with a sidelong glance as the waiter places two cups of coffee in front of them and asks if they’d like to see a menu. The two turn towards each other, and their hands begin to move, forming shapes and configurations Numbers had never seen before. After a moment of surreptitious observation, it dawns on him: They’re signing to each other.  
  
Deaf twins, huh? That’s something Numbers couldn’t have dreamed up in a hundred years. But he sure as hell wants it now. Fargo can wait a few more hours.

He signals the waiter as he passes by to refill the party lady’s mug. “Hey, whatever those two want, put it on my bill.”  
  
The waiter seems to shrug, or maybe he’s so tired he’s just trying to stretch his muscles. “They just asked for coffee, man.”  
  
“Then get them pancakes or eggs—fuck, whatever is your least disgusting breakfast food.” He pulls a $20 from his wallet and slides it across the counter. “Make it fast and I’ll double your tip.”  
  
The guy eyes him suspiciously, then tucks the bill into his apron and strides off towards the kitchen. Numbers is in the process of psyching himself up for a conversation with his potential bedmates, when he hears the woman beside him laughing.  
  
“Real fuckin’ suave. I just came a little.”  
  
“I’m surprised you stopped cramming your mouth for five seconds,” he hisses.  
  
“Looks like you wanna cram somethin’ in your mouth later. Like those two hot pieces of man meat. At the same time.”  
  
“Maybe I do, OK? Why don’t you eat some more crap and let someone else worry about the dick sucking for a change?”  
  
“I can hear you two assholes, you know.”  
  
Numbers whips his head around at the sudden, sharp southern drawl. The twin closest to him doesn’t speak, but glowers so fiercely, Numbers swears he feels his balls shrink. The other twin doesn’t seem to notice; he’s too busy poring over his placemat. Behind him, party lady starts cackling.  
  
Shit, how the fuck was he supposed to know they both weren’t deaf? They were  _identical twins_ , for fuck’s sake! He turns away before he can make an even bigger ass of himself, before the pissed off cowboy has the chance to shove a boot up his ass. Thankfully, the waiter comes out with his order, and Numbers shoves a slice of toast in his mouth to keep his nervous grumbling to a minimum.  
  
“Fuckin’ creep,” the twin gripes. Numbers swallows hard, his appetite fading.  
  
He can really be such an idiot sometimes.  
  
…  
  
“Fucking idiot dumb motherfucker…” Hammer can’t believe the audacity of the bearded asshole seated next to him. He has the right fucking mind to knock his teeth out.  
  
He’s starting to regret stopping here, but after a long night of driving, both of them had been on the verge of passing out. And though Hammer had just wanted to grab some caffeine and push onward,  Wrench insisted they stretch their legs and find someplace to rest for a while.  
  
If his brother hadn’t been so damn stubborn, Hammer wouldn’t be here right now, clenching his fists and imagining how his knuckles would feel as they slammed into Beardo’s face over and over again.  
  
He looks to Wrench to see if he managed to catch any of their exchange, but the other is examining his placemat, probably still mad that Hammer refused to let him order anything. Hopefully that bearded guy took Hammer’s cue and decided to back to fuck off. They don’t need his pancakes and they certainly don’t need his fucked-up sex fantasies.  
  
That guy. Is he even Wrench’s type? Fuck, Hammer hopes not.  
  
The ability to process sound isn’t the only attribute that sets the twins apart from each other. And while Hammer has come to terms with his brother’s sexuality, he still feels the need to look out for him. Because he’s his brother. And because of creeps like Beardo.

He surveys the stranger from the corner of his eye, asking himself the same question: Is this the kind of guy Wrench goes for? He can’t say he’s ever paid much attention to Wrench’s tastes. All he knows is that if this guy wants to fuck his little brother tonight, Hammer is going to do everything in his power to cockblock him.  
  
It’s not like they have time for it anyway. As soon as the coffee is drained, they need to get back on the road and head to the next town. They need to find more work, more money. He’s getting tired of living out of their dad’s old Buick.  
  
It  _has_  been a while since he’s had a decent fuck, though. And that woman on the other side of Beardo looks pretty hot. Odd as hell, but with a nice face and killer legs. He wouldn’t mind taking her out to the car for a quick ride…  
  
He quits staring when he feels Wrench tap him on the shoulder.  _What?_  
  
_There are no ads._  Wrench jabs the placemat with his index finger.  _How will we know where to look for work?_  
  
_It’s a chain restaurant, not some small-town diner,_  Hammer explains.  _There won’t be any ads._  
  
_Stupid._  He complains.  _Why did we stop here then?_  
  
For fuck’s sake. Hammer grits his teeth. He wants to say,  _We stopped here because you were whining like a little bitch_ , but barely gets a third of it out before the waiter appears, placing two large plates of eggs, pancakes and bacon in front of them.

Fuck. That asshole didn’t learn a goddamned thing.  
  
…  
  
Wrench stares wide-eyed at the spread before him. When he looks up at the waiter, he catches a word or two—”man” and “paid”—not quite enough to piece the thought together, so he turns to Hammer for clarification once the guy disappears back into the kitchen.  _What did he say?_  
  
Hammer mumbles something under his breath, and then replies,  _Nothing. It’s not important._  
  
His brother rarely gets like this, but when he does, it irritates the fuck out of Wrench.  _Don’t do this to me! Don’t you dare keep shit from me! Tell me what the fuck he said!_  
  
_Fine! He was talking about the food. He said it was on the house._  
  
Wrench frowns in irritation.  _Why would they do that? Who paid for it? He said something about a man. I saw his lips._  When Hammer seems to grumble and reach for his coffee, Wrench slaps his hand away.  _Don’t you fucking lie to me. I’ll shave your head while you sleep._  
  
Hammer glares back at him.  _It was the guy next to us, OK? Don’t look don’t look—_  He scrambles to steer him away as Wrench goes to peer over his shoulder. Wrench is able to catch a brief glimpse of the man—a fairly handsome guy with a sharp suit and a thick beard—but the man is too busy devouring his own breakfast to take notice.  
  
_Hurry up and eat so we can get out of here._  Hammer says.  _Weren’t you whining about how hungry you were just a minute ago?_  
  
Wrench shrugs, picking up his fork and shoveling several bites of scrambled eggs into his mouth. He really is starving, and he’s elated the guy beside them ordered on their behalf. He wants to thank him properly, and that has absolutely nothing to do with how attractive the man looks, or how soft he imagines his hair or lips might feel.  
  
After a few minutes of frantic eating (which is really the only way to stomach such mediocre food), Wrench pushes his plate to the side and taps Hammer on the arm. _Switch seats with me._  
  
Almost immediately, Hammer turns defensive.  _What? Why? Just fucking eat your breakfast._  
  
_I want to talk to the guy._  
  
_We don’t have time for that! We didn’t have time to eat, but that plan went straight to hell, so the least you can do is hurry the fuck up!_  
  
_I just want to thank him. Don’t be an asshole._  
  
Hammer bites his lip, his hands hanging in midair.  _You can’t…_  he seems to struggle with his thoughts. _Look…forget the guy. He…he’s probably just some creep with a twin fetish._  
  
Wrench rolls his eyes. _You’re just doing this because you’re uncomfortable with me flirting with guys while you’re around._  
  
_I am not!_  He huffs.  
  
_Then move and let me talk to him._  
  
With a groan Wrench can almost feel, Hammer slides off the stool and steps around him. Wrench edges over, knocking on the counter to get the man’s attention. When he notices Wrench beside him, he tenses, and quickly lays down his fork. His expression is somewhere between “mildly startled” and “just saw a ghost for the first time.” Wrench thinks it’s actually kind of cute.  
  
_Thank you,_  Wrench signs.  
  
The guy seems confused by the gesture. He wipes at his mouth, perhaps thinking that Wrench is trying to tell him he’s got some food stuck there.  
  
Or maybe he’s thinking Wrench is touching his lips because he wants to kiss him. That’s not entirely false.  
  
Wrench fumbles through his pockets, but can’t find pen or paper. He figures he hasn’t had much use for either with Hammer around all the time. His eyes scan the counter for reference, and eventually hit upon the word  _“Thanks!”_  written on a card advertising daily specials. He points to it and repeats the sign, smiling.  
  
The man grins, and Wrench is pleasantly surprised; he hadn’t thought he could possibly get any more attractive. He asks something that Wrench interprets as “Can you read lips?”  
  
Wrench flashes a small grimace, then shakes his hand back and forth to indicate that his skills are so-so. The bearded guy nods, and searches his jacket pockets, eventually producing a pen. He pulls the printed placemat from beneath his plate and flips it over to the blank side.  _“Is this better?”_  he writes, before passing the pen to Wrench.  
  
_“Much better. Thanks for the food by the way. My brother would have let me starve.”_  He prints it as neatly as possible and hands the pen back.  
  
Wrench watches the man’s face as he writes, almost more fascinated with his delighted expression than with the message he’s scrawling out.  _“Sorry the food is awful here. Maybe I can make up for it by taking you somewhere nicer.”_  He moves to slide pen and paper over, but pulls back and adds,  _“Just the two of us.”_  
  
Wrench casts a look over his shoulder to where Hammer is sulking with his mug of coffee. He runs a list of excuses through his mind, weighing which one will most likely convince Hammer to let them stay just a bit longer—a day or two or three—enough for one dinner, or a night of sex, followed by a morning of sex, and then an afternoon of sex. It doesn’t have to last forever, just long enough so he can have a taste.  
  
He smiles, licking his lips as he writes,  _“Sounds like a good time. Maybe later tonight?”_  
  
_“Sure.”_  The man laughs, and quickly jots down,  _“I like your jacket.”_  
  
Wrench purposely brushes their fingers together as he takes the pen from his hand. And he intentionally throws him the sultriest gaze he has as he shows him what he’s written:  _“I like your beard.”_  
  
That draws another laugh out of him, along with a light blush. He asks for Wrench’s name, and Wrench lists one of the many fake ones he and Hammer use when searching for employment. He often wishes he could tell men his real name, but it’s hard to live a life of honesty when so many of their odd jobs end in scamming the poor shmucks who hired them out of most of their cash and belongings.  
  
It doesn’t matter much, anyway, he tells himself. It’s not like the bearded guy—Nick, as he’d written on the placemat—it’s not like Nick is going to be his life partner or something. Wrench just wants a good time with the guy.  
  
As excited and turned on as he is, Wrench feels a slight pang of guilt at the thought of Hammer sitting at a bar or restaurant by himself, bored out of his mind while Wrench gets his rocks off. He takes the pen and writes,  _“What about my brother?”_  
  
Nick’s eyes widen, his face completely red as he presses his lips together.  
  
Oh. OH. Does he think Wrench is suggesting a threesome? Wrench can’t help but chuckle a bit.  _“Your friend back there. The woman you were talking to when we walked in. Is she single?”_  
  
Now he looks even more confused. Shit, he must think Wrench is into some really kinky stuff.  _“I’m asking for my brother. He’s been a pain in my ass lately. He really needs to mellow out and get laid.”_  
  
His lips part into an “Oh,” but he doesn’t reach for the pen. Instead, he wraps his shaking fingers around the mug of coffee in front of him and brings it to his mouth. Wrench lets him have a moment to himself _—_ free of further sexual misunderstandings—then writes,  _“Nevermind. Looks like someone else got to her first.”_  
  
Nick glances over his shoulder at the woman and the strange, gangly man who’d stepped in while they were preoccupied with their own conversation. He turns back to Wrench and shrugs.  _“He probably just did your brother a favor.”_  
  
Wrench laughs, and tells him to ask the waiter for another placemat. Theirs is filling up quickly.

…  
  
“Denny’s, mate, I fuckin’ love you!”

He says it to no one in particular, and, appropriately enough, no one cares to respond. It’s really a poor habit of his, the constant chatter and babbling—the root of all his troubles, most likely. When he thinks about it, he’s almost certain it’s what got him into such hot water with the crime syndicate out in San Diego. And he knows for a fact it’s the reason he can never go back to good old Adelaide. 

“Eh, live and learn, right? Time to make a new start.” The Aussie staggers away from the entrance and towards the counter. “Let’s see what we’ve got here…”

An eclectic gathering of folks dots the scene in front of him. On the far left is some large bloke in a cowboy jacket, hunched over with his elbows atop the counter. Seated next to him are two gay lovebirds passing notes. And beside them is a hell of a fine arse, if he’s ever seen one. Right. That’s where he’s headed. 

He takes the empty seat next to the foxy, purple-haired woman. “Hey, love, what’s sweet here? Besides you, of course?”

If he’d known she was going to start choking on her pancakes, he probably would have chosen a slightly less ridiculous pick-up line. Fortunately, after a pat or two on the back, she’s breathing again, or more accurately, laughing. 

Ah, Christ. Fucked up another one. He spots the waiter exiting the kitchen, and waves to get his attention. “Oi! Hey there! Can I get some coffee and your Moons Over My-Hammy?” The guy doesn’t write any of it down; he just nods and slinks away, looking fit for a nap. The Aussie feels he could use one too. Shit, he has yet to find a motel in this godforsaken—

“Were you ordering breakfast or trying to get the waiter into bed as well?" 

The woman’s voice startles him, but he bounces back quick as always, with only a slightly nervous chuckle. “Only if you don’t mind sharing me, love.” 

Her nose wrinkles as she lets out the cutest giggle he’s ever heard. Right, he’s got her now. Maybe won’t even need that motel room later, if her place is close enough. But he figures he should chat her up a bit more before moving in for the kill. “You look nice in that color.”

"Which one?" 

"All of them. Of course, it may just be because I’m a smidge colorblind.”

That gets her laughing again. She can barely stop long enough to take a sip of coffee. Even one of the gay fellas takes notice, turning around and giving them both an annoyed look.

“You’re full of shit, man,” she gives him a light punch in the arm.

“No, really! I swear, one minute I’m boxing this kangaroo at my mate Jimmy’s bachelor party, and the next I’m waking up with a killer headache and I can’t tell which of the Super Mario Brothers is the green one anymore. Turns out the bloody wanker kicked me in the head. Jimmy, not the kangaroo.”

The Sheila howls so loud at his story, Aussie thinks they might get thrown out before he’s had a chance to eat. Not that Denny’s is at the top of the fuckin’ Zagat list, but when he’s worn out and in need of a quick meal, it’s never managed to disappointed him.

And quick is exactly what he needs right now, before the blokes from San Diego have a chance to track him down. Time to wrap this shit up.

“So, you from these parts?”

“Yup. But judging by the accent, I’m guessing you’re not?”

“Nope, just passing through. Looking for a place to crash for the night, or day, whatever time it is.” He really has no clue what time it is; he’d had to pawn his watch for traveling funds.

The wink she gives him tells Aussie she knows precisely what he’s getting at. “Well, I took a cab here, so if you wanna come home with me, you’ll have to drive.”

“In that case, I think I’ll take my eggs to go.” He stands up, and gives a nudge to the woman whose name he has yet to inquire. Maybe he’ll ask once the sun is up and he’s had his fun and is halfway out the door. 

She grins, crooking her finger to beckon him closer. Aussie leans down, and she whispers into his ear: “I was thinking about what you said earlier, and actually, I wouldn’t mind sharing you with someone else tonight.”

"That so, love?” He can feel his face start to heat up. Shit, this just keeps getting better. “You got anyone in mind?”

“Hmm…I’m sure we can find someone around here,” she murmurs, casting a glance around the mostly deserted restaurant. “How about that lonely cowboy over there? He looks like he could use a horse to ride.”

“For you, sweetheart,” he laughs, “I’ll even bring the saddle.” He offers his hand. “Let’s go have a little chat with him, shall we?” 


	12. Scooby Don't Go Punching Ghosts in the Balls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - fairly SFW, if a bit gross/scary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/100273207722/do-you-think-wrench-and-numbers-believe-in-ghosts) _"do you think Wrench and Numbers believe in ghosts? I like to think at least one of them does"_

Wrench and Numbers have heard plenty of “questionable” paranormal stories from the Australian: Tales of hauntings from long-deceased hits, nights spent in old, creaky, secluded cabins, and that one time Joey the Blender had a curse put on him by the family of the guy he’d offed.

“I fuckin’ shit you not, mates! Old Joey had the full horror-movie package—puking blood, maggots in his arsehole, hair falling out. Then one night, he sees his dead mum sitting at the foot of his bed with fish hooks shoved through her eyeballs—fuckin’ drives his car into a freight train two days later. Jolly Rogers from Grand Forks says you can see his ghost walkin’ the tracks late at night, the poor bloke can’t get free of his curse even in death. Bloody creepy shit, if I ever heard it.”

Numbers openly scoffs at Aussie’s ridiculous ghost stories; Wrench follows along with a sort of childlike delight, though both will readily admit then and there that the concept of spirits and demons and the like seems preposterous to them.

Wrench is the one who breaks down later, once the sun sets and the lights are off. He’ll ask Numbers the same questions over and over:  _Do you think any of that stuff was real?_

_Of course not. Go to sleep._

_What about the one with the possessed dog?_

_That was the plot of **C-U-J-O**. Go to sleep. He’s just making all this shit up._

_It’s not like I’m afraid or anything._

_Good. Because it’s bullshit anyway._ Numbers shuts off the lamp on the bedside table. The darkness lasts about ten seconds, before Wrench reaches over and turns it back on.

_What if we were in a situation where there was a ghost chasing us? Would you punch him in the balls for me?_

_Jesus Christ, Yes. Yes, I would punch a ghost in the balls for you. Can you please go to sleep now?_

But if Wrench pesters him too much, Numbers will start to have nightmares where he’s trapped in a cemetery or abandoned factory, on the run from zombies and ghosts (sometimes while dressed as Freddie from  _Scooby-Doo_ ). And the next time they get sent out to a creepy place in the middle of nowhere for a job, he’ll become very sweaty and nervous, and will hang very close to Wrench without trying to give away just how fucking scared he is.

And since Wrench can’t hear, it makes it difficult for Numbers to explain why he’ll suddenly cling to him at the slightest noise. 

_Sorry. I thought I heard something._

_Was it a gunshot? Footsteps? Someone trying to ambush us?_

_No, it was more like a whiny, creaking sort of noise._

Wrench’s eyes widen.  _Just remember, if it turns out to be a ghost, you promised you would punch him in the balls for me._


	13. The Number(g)s Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers/Numbers - Explicit drabble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/100274824465/when-wrench-finds-out-that-numbers-used-to-think) _"When wrench finds out that numbers used to think about Toolbox twincest, he is very creeped out. Numbers insists it's a normal fantasy. So wrench turns away and closes his eyes. Numbers taps him on the shoulder, and wrench opens one eye to watch him sign. "what are you doing?" wrench closes his eyes again and signs, "I'm imagining if you had a twin brother. Oh, look, now you two are naked, and kissing, and..." a smile creeps into wrench' face. "Okay, now I'm starting to see the appeal.""_

But really, Wrench had only meant it as a joke—a way to piss Numbers off. Though, the more he thinks about it, the more turned on he gets by the idea.

He can picture it so clearly: Two Numbers kissing, thumbing each other’s nipples and rubbing cocks together. Two Numbers running their hands over Wrench’s body. One of them on his knees, slurping down Wrench’s cock, while the other is behind him, tongue teasing his asshole. Or maybe two hot, slippery tongues on his dick and balls, licking him until he explodes. Two beards dripping with his come…

Two Numbers bitching about jizz-soaked beards. Two Numbers spending hours in the bathroom, obsessing over their hair. Two Numbers nagging him to buy more Scrunyuns.

Shit, Wrench thinks, even in his fantasies he can’t escape just how annoying Numbers can be sometimes.

Fuck having two Numbers; he can barely handle one.


	14. The Number of the Beast with Two Backs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - minor sex talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/100276404952/numbers-has-a-gigantic-ego-and-in-his-head-hes-a) _"Numbers has a gigantic ego and in his head, he's a real player. So when he and Wrench are talking about their past sexual histories, he asks Wrench how many people he's slept with so that he can wow him with his own. Sure, Wrench is hot, but Numbers is a decade older, so there's no way Wrench has slept with more people than he has. But Wrench totally has (only by a few but still), and Numbers gets all embarrassed and upset."_

_What do you mean, twenty-nine? You’re talking about your age, right?_

_You know what I said. And you know I’m only twenty-three._

Fuck, that was even worse. That averaged out to what, three a year? Four? His math skills suddenly fail him.  _When did you lose your virginity?_

Wrench gives him an irritated look that warns Numbers he’s getting a little too personal. But after a pause, he answers,  _I was sixteen_.

Numbers smiles nervously and reaches to take a sip of his beer, fully planning to drown his embarrassment in alcohol. He hadn’t had sex for the first time until he was close to twenty-one, and though he was ten years Wrench’s senior, Wrench clearly had him beat as far as experience went. Shit shit shit. He’s not sure his fragile ego can take it.

And then Wrench drops another bomb:  _That’s not counting women, of course._

He’d slept with women too?! Numbers downs the rest of his beer. He glances around the bar, seeking anything to take his mind off of the conversation at hand.  _Hey, looks like the Broncos are winning._  He points at the television behind Wrench, but Wrench doesn’t even turn his head.

_You’re just trying to change the subject, aren’t you?_

_What? No._

_You know, you were the one who brought this up_ , he signs angrily.  _You said it was important for us to know each other’s sexual histories. Are you feeling ashamed now?_

Fuck, Numbers can’t let Wrench know. He made such a big deal out of it, acted so fucking suave and pretentious when he prattled on about his stats and conquests. Hell, he’d never let  _himself_  live it down.  _I’m not ashamed, I swear._

 _You are!_  Wrench bites his bottom lip, and in the dim lighting overhead, Numbers thinks he can see his shoulders trembling.  _You think I’m some kind of S-L-U-T now? You don’t want to be with someone who’s fucked so many people? Right?_

When he reads those words on Wrench’s hands, Numbers feels like the worst person in the world. He’d always only thought of himself, selfishly wanting to brag about how much better he was than everyone else—than his own _boyfriend_ , even—never caring how his boasts might hurt those closest to him. It’s no wonder he can never seem to keep a relationship.

 _No, NO. I would never think that about you!_ He hesitates, swallowing his pride.  _I just feel a little inadequate, that’s all. Why even bother staying with me? I mean, what can I give you that you haven’t already experienced?_

Wrench smiles warmly, reaching beneath the bar to give Numbers a reassuring pat on the knee.  _You’re you. That’s more than I ever could have wanted._ He laughs,  _But since you’re asking, there is one thing I’ve never experienced before._

Numbers grins, conjuring up images of Wrench in various sexual positions and situations.  _Yeah?_ _What’s that?_

_Marriage._

_……….._

When he wakes in his bed several hours later, he makes Wrench promise him two things. One:  _Never say that word again_ , and Two:  _If you tell anyone I fainted, I will rip your balls off with my teeth._

Wrench just laughs and kisses his forehead.


	15. Lend a Hand?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit fantasies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/100725262819/when-wrench-was-first-teaching-numbers-sign) _"When Wrench was first teaching Numbers sign language, it was difficult for Numbers to concentrate on the shapes Wrench's hands were making because he was busy imagining what it would feel like to have Wrench's deft and capable fingers wrapped around his cock."_

From the start of their partnership, Numbers had found himself fascinated with the way Wrench’s hands worked. Whether signing or pounding a guy’s face in or simply using a set of utensils, they moved with such grace and fluidity, Numbers had trouble taking his eyes off of them.

It made perfect sense, really. Wrench had been using his hands to communicate for most of his life. Conversely, it had taken Numbers two weeks just to grasp the basics of fingerspelling and to remember simple phrases like  _Let me drive_  and  _We need more bullets_  and  _May I use the bathroom?_  Two months later, and he was still fairly rigid and constantly signing the wrong words, which more often than not made Wrench laugh and repeat the proper movements. Sometimes, he would take Numbers’ hands in his larger ones, gently bending them into the right positions.

That, Numbers reasoned, must have been the turning point—the moment where the innocent awe ended and the inappropriate fantasies began.

They stopped by yet another diner for breakfast that day. Numbers always ordered for the both of them, but out of curiosity, he usually asked Wrench to show him the signs for particular food items or things around them, maybe an insult or two he could use to describe another customer. It was a way to make small talk with his new partner, and a distraction from the stress of the job.

Too much of a distraction, on occasion.

Numbers was having a particularly difficult time focusing that morning. Wrench’s hands were large yet elegant, and he knew how warm and firm they felt against his own. What would they feel like elsewhere on his body?

As he half-assedly feigned attention at Wrench’s vocabulary lesson, Numbers pictured those huge hands clamped around his waist, squeezing and pulling while he rode that beautifully massive piece of meat he was certain Wrench had to be packing.

Fuck, he could just imagine how amazing they would feel wrapped around his dick. Two incredibly skilled hands stroking him, caressing his shaft and balls. Ten graceful fingers teasing his taint or the tip of his cock, smearing precome around. Lithe, slippery fingers pushing his legs apart, sliding deep into his asshole, brushing against his prostate as a rugged fist worked his dick until he was groaning and coming…

The table rattled sharply, and Numbers was jolted back to reality. Wrench eyed him peculiarly, his fist clenched beside his mug of coffee.  _You paying attention?_ He spelled the entire question out after signing it, in case Numbers really hadn’t been paying attention.

Numbers nodded, then flashed an awkward smile and a thumbs up, unable to think of an appropriate response.

Wrench didn’t seem to be buying it, though. He licked his lips, glaring, before his hands formed the sign for  _Repeat_.

Shit. There was no faking his way through this test. Numbers didn’t even want to try, lest he should accidentally sign  _I want your sausage in my mouth_ , or something equally embarrassing. He squirmed in his seat, doing his best to reposition the throbbing erection he’d brought upon himself.

But Wrench was still staring, eagerly awaiting a response. With a short laugh and a stealthy tug on his crotch, Numbers replied with the only thing he could think of.

_May I use the bathroom?_


	16. Leggo My Eggo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamstralian - Explicit and kinda weird foodplay...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/100935796545/oh-god-so-i-was-rereading-the-waffles-conversation) _"oh god so I was rereading the waffles conversation and then this image happened and I AM SO SORRY but not enough not to share it... Sometimes when Letters is making breakfast and the boys are feeling impatient, they have this game where they try and see who can make the other come first before she comes back. Loser has to put their come on a waffle and eat it. Letters tolerates the practice with the usual baffled amusement. It's a good thing they're cute, because they're really fucking weird."_

Letters doesn’t know how she ended up with such a juvenile pair of lovers. For fuck’s sake, she's in her 30s; shouldn’t all this  _Animal House_  shit have ended after college?

 _Of course it should have_  is the obvious answer. Yet every time she walks in on a nude ring toss or vibrator reenactment of Star Wars, she can’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl. Those two idiots are just too adorable.

And she really can’t complain when she gets a front row seat to all of it, can she?

The shenanigans have been starting early as of late. Hammer and Aussie’s current obsession is yet another ridiculous man-test, the good old fashioned “I can make you come faster” challenge.

Letters will return to the bedroom in the morning, tray of freshly-made waffles in hand, only to find the two in all sorts of odd positions with equally odd items shoved in orifices. Once, it was the blunt end of a tube of toothpaste. Another time, a bundle of plastic chopsticks. 

Today, it’s only Hammer’s fingers. Though Letters can’t quite figure out how Aussie can bear being held half-upside down like that with his legs spread wide while Hammer deepthroats him. Shit, her head aches just from tilting it back and forth, seeking the right observational angle.

She’s not sure if they notice her, and she certainly doesn’t want to break their concentration by shouting something stupid like “You guys wanna add some taco to the sausage party?” They look so into it, Aussie steadying himself with both hands as he sucks Hammer down to the base, Hammer thrusting his fingers in roughly, Aussie’s balls bouncing against his face with each jolt of their bodies—it’d be a crime to interrupt. 

They seem close to finishing, anyway. Hammer’s crammed a third finger into Aussie, and when he begins moaning around his dick, Aussie’s whole body suddenly tenses up. A few seconds later, Hammer lets him fall back to the bed, wiping his mouth before triumphantly pumping his fist in the air. “Fuck yeah! Three wins in a row!” 

Aussie groans and stretches his neck between Hammer’s knees. “Fuck, mate. I’m never gonna be able to enjoy maple syrup again, am I?”

Letters laughs at that, and Hammer twists around at the sound of her voice. “Hey, babe. You’re just in time.” Grinning, he heaves himself off the bed, reaching out a hand to help a poor, spent Aussie to his feet. “You got the waffles?”

“Of course…” she sighs, holding a plate out to Hammer, who gleefully runs to the bed with it. Aussie stumbles over and gives her a quick peck on the cheek. They stand back and watch as Hammer kneels over the beautifully plated waffle, beating his dick with the kind of ferocity he generally reserves for one of their hits. 

“Shit,” Aussie mumbles, “I can’t believe you’re OK with him jizzing all over your delicious waffles. I mean, if it was Denny’s or Eggo…”

Letters gives a small shrug. “It’s cool, really. Not like I slaved all morning over the batter or anything. Besides,” she giggles, “I’m sure Auntie would only consider it an enhancement to her recipe.” 


	17. Backseat Driver (or Slow 'N' Steady) (or If This Buick is A-Rockin')

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit car sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/101285774515/i-am-buried-under-a-mountain-of-homework-all-i) _"I am buried under a mountain of homework & all I want is to write Wrenchers porn but I can't so here I am, taking advantage of your obvious greatness & porn writing abilities! It's spring, they're parked beside a quiet & isolated lake. They're in the back seat & Numbers is pressing Wrench's back into the car door. They're taking it slow today, enjoying the sun warming the car & a few minutes alone together. They're touching, kissing, exploring; it's like it's the first time all over again.*sigh*"_

A gentle breeze drifts through the Buick’s open windows, flooding the car with the fresh, crisp scent of spring rain and the earthy aroma of the surrounding forest. Somewhere in the distance, Numbers thinks he hears a bird singing, though it could very well just be the soft, mewling cries Wrench is making as he sucks lightly on his tongue.  
  
Moments like this are few and far between, and Numbers intends to take advantage of it before work calls them back to the tempestuous reality of their existence. He pushes Wrench deeper against the door, enjoying the warmth of his lips and body. Wrench’s t-shirt is slightly damp from the rain; Numbers peels it from his stomach, his hands helping themselves to the taut flesh beneath. He feels Wrench snort a giggle against his cheek.  
  
Numbers pulls back, lips pursed in a concerned pout.  _What’s up?_  
  
_My dick._  
  
He smacks him on the shoulder, which only seems to increase Wrench’s laughter. Once he’s calmed, Wrench lifts his hands to sign,  _I was just thinking of that job we did in South Carolina. We were supposed to blend in while doing surveillance on the guy’s beach house. You got so turned on seeing me in swim trunks, you begged me to fuck you right there in the car because you couldn’t wait until we made it back to our place._  
  
_I **did not** beg_, Numbers glares, though he’s far too horny to put up much of an argument. It had been Wrench’s fault, anyway, for looking so sexy in those ugly fucking things. It was always Wrench’s fault, for being so sexy in general. He hadn’t thought his pants could get any tighter, but his cock swells and strains at his zipper as the memory rushes back.  _So?_  
  
_So you know we don’t have the space for that here. You found out the hard way that day._  
  
If Numbers face wasn’t red before, he’s certain it is now. His hand instinctively rubs at the top of his head, in the exact spot where it had collided with the roof years ago. The bump had faded in a few days, but Numbers’ wounded pride could never let him forget how embarrassed he’d been having injured himself while frantically trying to ride his boyfriend in the backseat. He’s closer to forty than fourteen, for fuck’s sake. He should’ve grown out of this shit by now.  
  
He gazes past Wrench’s smug face, out the window at the scene behind them: Trees and shrubs stretching in all directions, a pale, grey-blue sky overhead, clouds reflected in the tranquil waters of a nearby lake.  
  
_Actually, this reminds me of something else._  When Wrench raises an eyebrow, Numbers continues,  _Do you remember our first time together?_  
  
_Of course._  Wrench licks his lips.  _How could I forget a sweet mouth like yours?_  
  
Numbers rolls his eyes. Always a smart comment with this one.  _Anyway, we had just offed this guy who was long past due on his loans. It was warm outside, but not too hot. We drove for almost an hour looking for a place to dump the body, and we ended up at a lake similar to this. You found a tiny rowboat out behind this fishing shack, and we took it out to the center of the lake, where we thought it would be deepest._  
  
He pauses here, choosing his words carefully. Wrench waves his hands, urging him on.  
  
_The whole time you were rowing, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you. I wanted to throw myself in the water just to hide my erection. And then you took your shirt off because you said it was too hot. I nearly lost it, watching the sweat dripping from your hair and chest. I almost came in my pants like a fucking kid thinking of how I wanted to lick every last drop from your body._  
  
Wrench laughs and teases his shirt over his head, leaning back so Numbers can admire his chest.  _I sometimes forget how filthy you are under that fancy exterior_. He blows a kiss in his direction.  
  
Never one to be outdone, Numbers tugs off his own thin t-shirt, finishing by spreading his legs and lightly running his fingers over his clothed erection, delighting in the way Wrench devours him with his eyes. He moves to touch him, but freezes when Numbers holds up his hands.  
  
_I wish you could have seen the look on your face once we got back to shore. You really had no idea why I was trying to shove you into the backseat._  
  
He shrugs.  _I thought you were just wasting time. As usual._  
  
_The whole time, you kept complaining that you were tired and you just wanted to get back to the motel and rest because you’re the only one that ever does any hard work between the two of us. And then I grabbed your wrists and kissed you. After that, you couldn’t get the door open fast enough._  
  
Wrench fixes him with a moody stare.  _Yeah? Well I remember you bitching afterwards that I’d been too gentle with you._  
  
Sure, Numbers had said something like that. Sure, it was embarrassing to acknowledge. But at the moment, he sees no point in denying it.  _Only because I didn’t want to admit how much I enjoyed it. Taking things slow_.  
  
Wrench smiles shyly.  _I don’t think I could have managed to go much faster, anyway. Half of me felt like I was dreaming, and the other half knew it was real, but swore it was just a fluke. I wanted to make it last as long as possible, in case I never got another chance with you. I was so nervous about fucking things up, it was like I was a virgin all over again._ He laughs and shakes his head.  
  
He looks adorable like this, Numbers thinks, and he can’t resist cupping Wrench’s face in his hands and kissing him. He holds him still after they break apart, waiting for Wrench to open his eyes before breathing, “Touch me like that again. Please.”  
  
Numbers knows his message has been understood when Wrench grins and brings their lips back together. Large hands settle on his thighs, squeezing gently, thumbs just barely brushing the bulge in his pants. It isn’t long before they’re on the move, palms dragging along the sides of his chest, touches so light he can’t help but shiver and gasp into Wrench’s mouth. In response, Wrench gives a soft chuckle and begins slowly turning circles over Numbers’ nipples.  
  
Numbers remembers this feeling all too well, this paradox of wanting to draw things out endlessly yet wanting to come so badly it almost hurts. He remembers how long it’s been since they’ve had the time for this kind of leisurely enjoyment of each other, and he’s surprised at how much he’s missed it. His fingers encircle Wrench’s wrists as they embark on their journey north, gliding over strong arms and fuzzy hair, upwards until they reach those broad shoulders he loves so much. He lets his hands rest there for a moment, enjoying the roll of muscle beneath his palms as Wrench continues caressing his chest, dragging fingernails through hair and pinching the tiny bit of pudge around his navel. He’s gotten a little soft in the middle with age and excess junk food, and though Wrench doesn’t seem to mind, Numbers still wishes he could maintain his younger lover’s impressive set of abs. He slides his palms down Wrench’s stomach and mimics the motion (with less satisfying results), smiling when Wrench exhales a laugh and pokes a finger into his bellybutton.  
  
They break apart for a few seconds, as neither can contain their amusement. Numbers seizes the opportunity to pin Wrench’s arms above his head, diving in for another round of kisses. He presses the full weight of his body into Wrench’s, hips slowly rolling forward, a wonderful friction that causes Wrench to groan and rut his erection against Numbers’. It’s almost too much to bear, and Numbers has to ease off a little to keep himself from breaking his word and frantically grinding their cocks together until they’re both drenched in sweat and come.  
  
No. He promised himself he would take things slow. It’s the whole reason he brought up the story to begin with.  
  
He takes a deep, calming breath, and loosens his grip on Wrench’s wrist, fixing him with a heated stare that warns him not to move a muscle. Wrench complies, keeping his arms raised, his lips shining as he licks them between gasps. Those lips aren’t what Numbers wants at the moment. He dips down and presses his face to the damp patch of hair at Wrench’s armpit, inhaling the sultry scent of sweat, lapping up salt and sweet, sweet moisture, reacquainting himself with each of Wrench’s unique and intoxicating flavors.  
  
Beneath him, Wrench is squirming and biting back moans, his free arm wrapped around Numbers’ back, fingernails biting into soft skin. Numbers makes the mistake of drawing back to admire Wrench’s aroused state; in an instant, he finds himself pressed to the opposite door, those big, elegant hands moving from his shoulders to his waist to his belt, tugging at buttons and elastic until his engorged cock springs free.  
  
Numbers watches his face in awe as Wrench drags the very tips of his fingers along his shaft, running the pads of each over his weeping slit, taking care to get them nice and slick and slippery with precome. He smirks seductively as he lifts his hand to clean himself off, working his fingers slowly in and out of his mouth while humming in content.  
  
Taking it slow might have its perks, but if he doesn’t touch Wrench now, Numbers feels he might die of anticipation. He heaves himself up and attacks Wrench’s fly, his trembling hands unable to make it past the buckle. With a gentle persistence that never fails to turn him to putty, Wrench encloses Numbers’ hands in his larger ones, coaxing them aside to allow himself to finish undressing. He must have taken Numbers’ words to heart, because he does this unbearably slow, leaving Numbers flustered and wanting, unable to do much else but rub the inside of Wrench’s thighs until he’s got his jeans down far enough for that beautiful cock to appear.  
  
He wastes little time wrapping his fingers around it, stroking gently, reveling in how smooth and warm it feels against his palm. Wrench’s cock is large and uncut, thick even when it’s soft, and Numbers adores every inch of it. He loves it in his ass, filling him up to the point he feels he’ll split in two; he loves it in his mouth, loves the taste and texture and the choked moans Wrench makes when he tries to swallow it straight down to the base.  
  
Numbers intends to do just that, but Wrench has other plans, apparently. He intercepts his descent, gently tilting his chin up for another kiss. His other hand rests on Numbers’ chest, easing him against the opposite door again, the way they had been before Numbers had pounced on him in desperation.  
  
As he settles back, he thinks it doesn’t matter whether they come now, or in ten minutes, or if they’re still hard and holding on by the time night arrives. Wrench’s hands are on his sides, his lips on his neck, and  Numbers loves it so much, he thinks he’d like to be buried like this.  
  
The breeze outside has grown considerably cooler; it stirs Numbers’ sweat-dampened hair, making him shudder and reach out for Wrench’s warmth. But Wrench pulls away, placing both hands on the seat around Numbers’ waist, sliding back until he’s stretched out as far as the car will allow. Numbers thinks he looks terribly uncomfortable with one knee tucked under him and a foot braced against the floor, but he can’t complain when Wrench bends and presses his lips to his chest.  
  
He sinks lower, nudging Numbers’ cock aside with his chin so he can slurp up the sticky precome that clings to his stomach. His breath is hot on Numbers’ skin, his tongue scalding as it traces the thin trail of hair down to his dark, bushy pubes, and Numbers can’t stop himself from threading his fingers through Wrench’s curls, pushing him closer even as teeth sink into the sensitive flesh just above his cock. Wrench grunts, tensing up, so Numbers forces his grip to relax, his hands falling to Wrench’s shoulders. And then Wrench’s mouth settles on his dick.  
  
Wrench licks lazily along his length from base to tip, over and over again, his saliva trickling down Numbers’ balls, soaking the crotch of his underwear. Numbers is panting and moaning freely now, and he wishes more than anything that Wrench could get a hand around his throat to feel how much he fucking loves this, but he hasn’t the slightest clue how Wrench is managing not to topple over as it is. So he claws at his partner’s back and cries out even louder, hoping he can get his point across.  
  
It must work, because Wrench lifts his pale, green eyes to Numbers, fixing him with that piercing gaze Numbers fell in love with all those years ago. And then he’s running his tongue beneath the head of his cock again, and  _Christ_ , Numbers is fucking gone. His nails tear into Wrench’s shoulder blades, and he arcs his back and shoots onto his chest and stomach. Wrench doesn’t wait for him to finish before diving in to clean him off. When he sits up, there’s still a bit of come dripping from his chin.  
  
Wrench stretches his arms behind his back, and Numbers can hear his joints crack and pop over the sound of his own ragged breathing.  
  
“Shit,” Numbers gasps. He repeats it several times, earning a confused look from Wrench. He manages to steady his hands long enough to sign,  _Came too soon_. Fuck, that was an understatement. Wrench hadn’t even the chance to get him in his mouth before he exploded all over himself.  
  
But Wrench is all smiles.  _Don’t worry about it. I remember things being over just as fast the first time, once we got our hands on each other’s cocks._  With a smirk, he shifts back against the door, parting his legs and beckoning Numbers with his eyes.  _Care to test my memory?_  
  
At least this time, in his haste to get to Wrench’s dick, Numbers has the hindsight to watch his head on the ceiling.


	18. The Asshole Buffet is Open for Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit and generally awful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/101964810810/wrench-and-numbers-both-like-each-other-and-there) _"Wrench and Numbers both like each other and there is a lot of unresolved sexual tension between them. They are having some witty banter when Wrench says something snarky towards Numbers. Numbers playfully pushes his shoulder and signs "suck my dick." Wrench grins with a twinkle in his eye and signs "okay." Numbers blushes and tries to tell him he doesn't have to do it, but once Wrench has made a promise, he's going to keep it."_

_Look_ , Numbers begins,  _we can go at this all night. But I’m not changing my mind. The guy choked on his own vomit. It clearly doesn’t count._

Wrench coughs up a laugh before draining what’s left of his whiskey and setting the empty glass down just a bit too hard on the coffee table.  _And you can eat my entire ass. It fucking counts. Who do you think caused it. Huh?_ ** _Me._** _From punching him in the balls over and over._ In emphasis, he leans forward and slams his fist into the palm of his hand repeatedly, and Numbers swallows around the lump in his throat, instantly grateful that his own genitals have never had the pleasure of meeting those fists.

Still, he’d be lying if he said the thought of Wrench and his genitals connecting in other ways hadn’t crossed his mind on occasion. He would always get a little excited whenever Wrench invited him over for drinks after they’d finished a job, and although his hopes never panned out, Numbers refused to succumb to disappointment. They were professionals, after all; there were boundaries in play long before Numbers had gotten that tattoo to remind himself their hands could only be used for communication.

Though it gets hard to remember that when Wrench’s hands are moving so swiftly and gracefully through the air, even when they’re insulting him.  _It’s OK, I don’t blame you for forgetting how it went down that night. I guess you were too busy crying and puking your guts out._

Numbers knows that night like the back of his hand. If he’d been counting correctly, it was precisely the fourth time he’d popped a boner while watching Wrench beat the piss out of someone, though it quickly deflated once he caught that unmistakably pungent scent, and saw the vomit spurt from the guy’s nostrils and trickle over the tape covering his mouth. He almost hadn’t made it outside in time.  _Fuck you._ Numbers glares, flipping him the bird. _I have a sensitive stomach._

Wrench scrunches up his face and pretends to cry, earning him another middle finger from Numbers.  _You baby. You squealed like a whore at a D-I-L-D-O-C-O-N-V-E-N-T-I-O-N._

Honestly, the insults Wrench comes up with never cease to amuse him.  _Really?_   _How would you have heard that, anyway?_

_Doesn’t matter. Point is, it counts._

_It **doesn’t**. Besides, we weren’t supposed to kill him. You fucked up when you followed me outside and left him alone in there._

_What? I had to hold your hair back like a good boyfriend._ Wrench winks at him and makes a kissy-face, and fuck if the room doesn’t seem to get warmer all of a sudden.

It’s the memory of Wrench standing behind him in that dark alley, calmly rubbing his back as he coughed and sputtered up his lunch, that sends the blood rushing to Numbers’ cock. He shifts nervously on the couch and reaches to pluck his glass from the table, downing the rest in one long sip. He’s glad Wrench can’t hear how loudly he slams it against the wooden surface.  _Fine, you win. Fucking count it._

A wide grin spreads across Wrench’s face. Like he’s won the fucking murder lottery.  _Good. So that makes it thirty-eight to thirty-one kills._  He laughs,  _You better step your game up, grandpa_.

Numbers finds himself wishing Wrench’s couch had a few throw pillows. Leaden ones, at that.  _Bullshit! If you can count the puking guy, then why can’t I count all the hits I’ve done before we were partnered up? I’ve been in this longer than you have._

Again, Wrench mimics Numbers’ pouting, only this time he lurches forward and holds out a wobbly fist, like he’s steadying himself on a cane. Numbers rolls his eyes and groans.

_You’re just doing this because you’re a sore loser. You know my count is higher than thirty-one. It’s at least in the mid-forties._

_Mid-forties? Is that your age or are we still talking about kills?_

Wrench lets out a raucous burst of laughter when Numbers sneers and punches him in the shoulder. It’s possibly the most noise Numbers has ever heard him make, and as much as his pride hates to admit, he finds it kind of cute. Still, for the sake of keeping up appearances, he presses his lips into a livid line and waits for his adorable deaf asshole to calm down before signing,  _Suck my dick, F-U-C-K-S-T-I-C-K._

For a second, Wrench just looks him over with a somewhat amused expression on his face. Then, he shrugs innocuously.  _OK, sure._

Numbers had taken that to signal the end of their silly argument— _‘OK, sure, let’s just drop it and have another drink’_ —but his eyes widen when, not ten seconds later, Wrench follows with,  _Take your pants off._

No, that can’t be right. Did he read it wrong? He stares blankly at his partner, who seems to be tapping his fingers impatiently against the back of the sofa. Was he really expecting—waiting—for Numbers to just up and drop his trousers?

Numbers chuckles to himself. Of course not. It’s just another of Wrench’s jokes. He should have known by now. Though that realization does little to stop the growing tightness in his pants.

But then, Wrench grins and reaches forward, hooking a long finger through one of Numbers’ belt loops and  _tugging._  

Numbers begins to panic. He shifts towards he edge of the couch and signs a hasty  _I should go_ , but Wrench latches onto his leg as he stands, causing him to topple to the carpet. Crawling does little to advance his retreat; in a matter of seconds, Wrench has him on his back, straddling his hips while pinning both arms above his head. Numbers’ pulse is racing, and he wonders if Wrench can feel it through his wrists. Even if he can’t, he must  _see_  how unsteady his breathing is, how he shifts his eyes around desperately in an attempt to avoid his gaze.  _Fuck_ , he tells himself,  _this can’t be happening._

Oh, but he’s wanted it to happen for so long. Why not just let it?

He know why, of course. He sucks in a breath and presses gently against Wrench’s grip, meaning to explain everything once his hands are free. Yet, when Wrench releases him, Numbers finds himself at a loss for words. He flexes his fingers and just stares up at him, unable to even emote how scared and horny he is at the moment. Wrench sits back on Numbers’ hips, his weight more than enough to hold him down, and when Numbers suddenly tenses and bites back a gasp, he can see the glee twinkling in his partner’s eyes. 

 _You’re hard. I can feel it._ He ruts his ass over Numbers’ erection, and they both let out a soft moan, almost simultaneously.  _Did you get turned on thinking about my lips wrapped around your cock?_

Wrench’s hands move slower than usual when he signs it, and Numbers considers the possibility that he might just be drunk. Sure, that would be an easy out for him—he very well can’t take advantage of his poor, inebriated partner. But he knows it’s likely not the case. He’d once seen Wrench drink a fifth of Jack without so much as a wobble, and they’d only had one, maybe two drinks, tops? Numbers fights to compose himself, forgets trying to explain things and just gathers his wits long enough to say,  _I was joking. You don’t have to do this._

 _I know._ Wrench licks his lips.  _But I’ve been wondering what you taste like for some time now._

Those words seem to sweep the air from his lungs; he hasn’t the time to react before Wrench is gripping his chin, bending down to press a rough kiss to his lips. Numbers’ mouth opens eagerly, and there’s the familiar burn of alcohol on Wrench’s tongue, and beyond that, a subtle, sweet flavor he’s only ever dreamed of. Wrench pulls away before he has the chance to fully acquaint himself with it, tearing from Numbers’ throat what he can only describe as a pitiful, needy whimper.

Wrench slinks down the length of his body, his hands quickly undoing the buckle and buttons keeping his cock in check. Odd noises tangle in Numbers’ throat, his skin prickling as Wrench slowly peels the fabric from his groin. When he’s got Numbers’ pants down to almost his knees, he stops to admire the sight before him. 

_Looks delicious._

Numbers can’t watch this. Not that he doesn’t want to, but he simply  _can’t._  He’s already twitching just picturing Wrench between his thighs, gazing up at him while he works his mouth around his length. If he actually  _saw_ it, he’d come in two seconds flat. 

He shuts his eyes and waits, jumping slightly when Wrench pushes his shirt up to his chest, his hands trailing along his ribs. Numbers feels stupid just lying there spread out like a starfish. He should be stopping this, fighting back, pleading with Wrench against crossing this line—

He should be grabbing him, kissing him, pulling his clothes off, wrapping his legs around his waist as he’s fucked so hard he gets rugburn on his ass cheeks.

But Numbers is paralyzed with anxiety, pathetic and helpless. 

Until he feels the electric jolt of Wrench’s lips on his stomach, and his hands shoot to the back of his partner’s head, tangling in messy curls.

Wrench laughs, the heat of his breath ghosting across Numbers’ skin. He kisses along his hips and down his shaft with infuriating slowness, leaving Numbers half-mad with lust by the time he finally takes him in his mouth. 

His mouth. Fuck, his mouth is the best Numbers has ever felt. He bucks into that tight heat, and Wrench gets the message, sucking him down to the base, his nose nuzzling Numbers’ bush and his muttonchops tickling his thighs. Numbers gasps and licks his lips, squirming as Wrench starts to suck faster, harder. He’s moaning around Numbers’ cock now, a low hum that builds deep in his throat and thrums all throughout Numbers’ body, and Numbers wonders if Wrench is doing it to fuck with him, or if he really loves having Numbers’ dick in his mouth. 

Either way, he’s fucking good. Numbers doesn’t want to question the How or Why of Wrench’s cocksucking skills, he just wants to enjoy them, to have them all to himself. He wants to hear more of those beautiful slurping noises Wrench is making. He wants to pull his legs to his chest so Wrench can slide his tongue into his crack. He wants his fingers inside him, spreading him open. 

He wants to be fucked until he can’t remember his own name. Until he forgets why he ever held himself back in the first place.

Between the fantasies in his mind and the staunch reality happening below his waist—Wrench’s lips on his cock, and Wrench’s teeth grazing his shaft, and Wrench’s tongue twirling around his head—Numbers is unable to hold out. He clenches his fingers in Wrench’s hair, biting the inside of his cheek hard as he comes. Wrench sucks him through the aftershocks, stopping once Numbers’ hips cease their trembling. 

His whole body feels relaxed now, though his chest is heaving, and his heart still pounding, and his damp cock rapidly cooling against his thigh. He could easily freak out over what just happened—scream at Wrench that they absolutely should not have done this, slink back to his cold apartment with his tail between his legs, even ask Fargo for a new partner—but he simply can’t be upset, not with the way Wrench is smiling down at him, looking happier than he’s ever seen him. 

 _Did you like that?_ he asks Numbers.

Numbers nods, rubbing at his sweat-slicked face. Without so much as a second thought, he asks,  _What about you?_

There’s a nod from Wrench, a bit more enthusiastic than his own had been, and Numbers feels his confidence swell even as he strings together one of the most embarrassing questions he’s ever concocted:  _Did I taste better than you imagined?_

In response, Wrench grins and leans down for another kiss. Numbers knows most guys would be repulsed by the mere thought of tasting their own come, but he parts his lips willingly, brushing his thumb across Wrench’s cheek as their tongues slide together. It’s delicious, really, and insanely erotic. It’s the taste of them together, at last.

When Wrench breaks the kiss, Numbers holds his gaze and mouths “Your turn.”

He smiles warmly as he pulls away, moving aside Numbers’ thighs to sit on the floor beside him.  _It’s OK. Don’t feel like you owe me or anything._ There’s a tremor coursing through his movements, and his face and neck seem to redden slightly.  _I don’t want to make you uncomfortable._

Numbers rolls onto his side, laughing. Fuck, had Wrench been worrying over things as obsessively as him? It’s adorably sweet, and Numbers sidles up next to him, placing a soft kiss beside his ear, his lips whispering unheard promises. He sits back and signs,  _Why don’t we move this to the bedroom?_

Wrench still looks hesitant, though, and when he lifts his hands, Numbers immediately cuts him off with,  _Didn’t you mention_ _something earlier about eating your ass?_

Oh. That’s got him giggling now. He presses his lips together and arches his eyebrows.  _I might have._

 _Good, because I’m starving. I hope the A-S-S-H-O-L-E-B-U-F-F-E-T is open late._ Numbers swears he must be red from head to toe; he’s never spouted off such ridiculously filthy things.

But he’d say  _anything_  just to see Wrench smile like that. 

 _You’re damn right it is_ , Wrench replies, pulling himself to his feet.  _And lucky you, it’s all-you-can-eat._

Of course, Numbers thinks as he kicks off his pants and stumbles half-nude into the bedroom, it helps that he learned it from the best.


	19. The Asshole Buffet is Still Open for Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit and extreme salad-tossing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/101964974305/i-basically-just-need-a-fic-about-wrench-being) _"I basically just need a fic about Wrench being really enthusiastic about the idea of rimming Numbers, and Numbers being vaguely surprised by his excitement-- like, he's up for it I guess but isn't expecting so much eagerness on Wrench's part (maybe he's been rimmed before but thought it was kind of meh). Needless to say Wrench makes him come his brains out."_

Numbers tries not to seem taken aback by the statement, though he figures his face must betray him by the way Wrench knits his brows in disappointment. Fuck, giving his partner cause for shame has always been the furthest thing from his mind. But how the hell was he supposed to react? They’d just been fooling around on Numbers’ bed a few minutes ago, kissing and lazily sliding their cocks together, when Wrench had suddenly pulled back and said, like it was the most casual thing in the world—

_I wanna eat your asshole._

He feels his pulse quicken, and forces a calm smile, more for Wrench’s benefit than as a means of easing his own nerves. That strategy only works about half the time, anyway.  _It’s OK, you don’t have to do that._  His hands tremble the slightest bit.  _You don’t even have to finger me. We can just fuck._

_But I **want**  to_, Wrench signs emphatically, like a kid scheming to bypass dinner and head straight to dessert.  _I already know how hot and wet it feels around my fingers and cock. I want to know what it tastes like, too._

Numbers’ breath hitches with each word. Fuck, Wrench knows exactly how to get him worked up. Still…His fingers twitch as he contemplates the gentlest way to let him down.

Numbers could hardly consider himself inexperienced in the Ways of the Butt. Yet, while a fair amount of the men and women he’d bedded had shown interest in exploring the inner sanctum of his anus, it wasn’t until he’d been paired with his previous partner that he warmed up to the idea of being on the receiving end of things. And that had only taken several months and a considerable amount of persuasion.

She’d been the proud owner of an eight-inch strap-on she’d called “Gracie,” and after each job, she’d make him say “Goodnight” to it by having him pull his knees up to his chest.

She’d also had a secret cocaine habit, which was the reason the syndicate had instructed him to terminate their relationship. He hadn’t the heart to keep Gracie for himself.

Even after he’d become quite the cockslut, there had been certain aspects of sex his high-strung personality had found troubling to get behind, so to speak. Things like footjobs and golden showers and even the more vanilla nipple play had all seemed too embarrassing to enjoy, though he’d always considered himself curiously open to new experiences.

Rimming was another of his hang-ups. One of his many one-night stands had eaten him out once, but he’d been so self-conscious about his body, so preoccupied with how silly he must have looked bent over like that, and how sweaty and unappealing his ass must have tasted that he hadn’t had much fun. Sure, he’d sometimes wondered what other guys got out of having their assholes licked—if it felt as good to them as, say, a woman felt while having her pussy eaten. He’d wondered if he could do a better job of it than most men, if he could make them come with just his tongue. But no one had ever asked him, so he’d filed it away in the back of his mind as simply unimportant. Fucking was more than enough to keep him happy.

And then Wrench came along.

He wasn’t sure how they’d managed to work together for almost an entire year without jumping each other’s bones, but once that wall between them had finally— _thankfully_ —been broken, they’d spent the past few weeks going at it like horny teens, making up for lost time. Numbers was so fucking infatuated with Wrench, there was literally nothing he wouldn’t do for him— _to him_ —in the sack.

But then, Wrench hadn’t demanded much from him. Until now.

Numbers leans back against the headboard and runs his tongue over dry lips. His hands feel restless, words tumbling around in his head, struggling for cohesion.  _You really don’t have to. There’s a lot of hair around there, you know._

Stupid, of course Wrench knows about his hairy asshole; he sticks his dick in there so often, they’re practically connected. Shit, maybe if Numbers had taken the time to manscape, he wouldn’t be going limp from anxiety.

The way Wrench chuckles at his ridiculous comment doesn’t seem to help, either. _Good. It’ll add to the flavor._

And  _of course_  Wrench would get off on that. He’s always cleaning him like a fucking cat, lapping delightedly at his come-slicked chest and stomach. Numbers had never seen someone so happy to be plucking hairs from their tongue.

He’d never seen someone this starved for ass, either.

But before Numbers can concoct an excuse that actually makes fucking sense, Wrench fixes him with his most pleading gaze, practically begging,  _Please, I’ve been dying to do this with you for so long. Just give me a shot. If you don’t like it, I promise I’ll stop._  With a wink and a smirk, he adds,  _But trust me, you’ll like it._

There’s a hungry gleam in his eye, and Numbers’ stomach seems to knot and un-knot itself repeatedly. If it were anyone else asking, he’d have no problem simply saying NO. But it’s Wrench who wants it, it’s Wrench who’s looking him over, licking his lips like he can already taste him. It’s Wrench making his dick twitch back to life, and Fuck, how the hell can he refuse?

_OK, sure._  He shrugs, a weak smile playing across his face.  _Help yourself._

Wrench grins and leans in for a kiss. It’s calm and sweet and leaves Numbers dazed once he pulls away, completely forgetting how this is all supposed to work, until Wrench hurriedly instructs  _Turn around, turn around._

Well, then. Looks like it’s settled.

His simmering nerves make him sluggish, his extremities leaden and resistant to motion. By the time he’s managed to pull himself onto his hands and knees, Wrench has already shuffled down to the foot of the bed, busying himself with rubbing Numbers’ calves and inner thighs, encouraging him to spread his legs wider. As if he isn’t exposed enough already.

There’s a tap on his hip, and Numbers crams his doubts back into the pit of his stomach. When he turns his head, he’s greeted with Wrench’s warm smile.

_You look so sexy like this._

As anxious as he is, Numbers can’t help but laugh at that. He closes his eyes and rests his head against his forearms, heart pounding as he waits for Wrench to begin. He tries to relax himself by ticking off each breath as it passes through his lungs.

_One._

He feels Wrench’s hands on his ass, caressing him gently, giving a light squeeze or two before sliding over his hips and moving to stroke his back.

Nice and slow. He almost forgets…

_Two._

Lips replace hands, kissing and sucking. Still so light, so soft.

Not quite there. Soon…

_Three._

Wrench’s breath is hot against his lower back, the crack of his ass. He can almost feel it sink inside him.

Closer, he’s so close. Dammit…

_Four._

He presses his nose to the edge of his cleft and inhales deeply, exhaling a sigh and a quiet murmur.

Does he like the smell of him? Fuck fuck fuck this is it…

_Five._

Numbers’ eyes clench tighter, his entire body tensing as Wrench flits his tongue over his asshole.

OK, it feels a little odd. Odd, but not bad.

Wrench repeats the motion again and again, teasing with just the tip, barely making any contact, though Numbers gasps and jerks with each fleeting swipe.

Fuck what he’d thought before. This is more than ‘not bad.’ It’s goddamned  _great._ He hadn’t remembered it feeling so good. Then again, it hadn’t been Wrench back then, slowly rubbing his back with those large hands of his, soothing his tired nerves. Putting his mind at ease.

Numbers presses back, and is rewarded with more of that sweet tongue against his hole. Wrench grips his cheeks again, thumbs spreading him open for better access. He can’t be bothered to care about his appearance now, not when Wrench is licking him in long, broad strokes, making him moan and roll his hips with abandon.

He feels like—well, like an asshole, really, for putting up such resistance to something so fucking amazing. Wrench is lavishing attention on him, kissing and sucking, tongue darting between lips to press thoughtfully against the center, not quite enough to slip inside.

It’s good, so good, Wrench’s tongue soft and warm against his sensitive skin. And wet. Everything’s wet, from the top of his crack down to his balls, a testament to Wrench’s dedication. Numbers lifts his head and peers between his arms, and fuck, even his dick is leaking all over the place, crying out to be touched. He reaches for it, groaning as he gives it a few quick tugs, but Wrench is instantly on him, gently pulling Numbers’ hand away in favor of his. Numbers likes it much better this way; after knowing the pleasure of Wrench’s skilled hands around his cock, his own just can’t compare.

Wrench has done such a good job of getting him relaxed and slippery, by the time he decides to press inside, Numbers’ asshole eagerly opens up for him, swallowing his tongue with little resistance. He fucks him with it slowly, splitting him open as far as it can go, and then pulling out almost entirely, only to wriggle back in. Numbers can feel himself pulse and twitch around Wrench’s tongue, his hips bucking faster, wanting more, deeper. Wrench’s hand is slick around his cock, twisting and stroking, matching each thrust.

He begins moaning against Numbers’ asshole, the soft, sultry sounds he reserves strictly for moments when they’re alone like this. Hearing Wrench’s voice, knowing how much he’s loving making a meal out of him, helps push Numbers over the edge. A few more thrusts, a handful of strokes on his cock, and he’s coming so hard, he’s sure the neighbors must feel it too.

As Wrench pulls out of him, he runs his tongue gently around Numbers’ pucker, causing Numbers to sigh contentedly. His eyes feel glued shut in bliss, but he blindly allows Wrench to steer him away from the wet spot on the sheets and lay him down on much drier territory. When Wrench starts softly rubbing his belly, he swears he almost purrs like a cat. He smiles, gazing up at him.

_You were delicious. Best thing I’ve ever eaten._  Wrench laughs and ruffles Numbers’ hair, knowing full well how annoyed he gets at such a gesture.

But Numbers is too overjoyed to be pissed off. After all they’d just done, it probably looks like he’s been through a damned hurricane, anyway. He holds his hand out to Wrench, his partner helping him into a sitting position. “Wow,” he gasps, mirroring Wrench’s delight.  _Can you add me to your diet? Maybe twice a week? Three times?_

There’s a smug smirk on Wrench’s face.  _Of course. You know you’re my favorite food group._

They share a laugh, and then Numbers glances down and notices how swollen Wrench’s cock has grown just from eating him out. He licks his lips.  _Could I?_

Wrench nods, stretching out on his back. He seems genuinely surprised when Numbers shakes his head.

_I was thinking of sampling something different. If you don’t mind my beard, that is._

_Sure_ , he nods excitedly.  _For you, my ass is always on the table._

_Stupid_. Numbers gives his ass a playful slap as he turns around, grateful that Wrench can’t hear his breathy whisper:

“I’m gonna gorge on you like a Vegas buffet.”

And if things go well, he might even help himself to seconds.


	20. The First Rule of Gay Fight Club...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit and a little bloody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/101968157555/wrench-and-numbers-are-brimming-with-unresolved) _"Wrench and numbers are brimming with unresolved sexual tension and get into a huge work related argument in a motel room. Their fight gets physical, and after exchanging a few punches Wrench slams numbers against a wall and kisses him. Suddenly they are no longer eager to kill each other, they are eager to rip each other's clothes off."_

Numbers’ nose hurts like a bitch, but the taste of blood only spurs him on, makes him crave it more.

“Stupid deaf motherfucker!” The thought crosses his mind to sign it—simply out of habit—and he laughs to himself.

No, his hands have much better things to do at the moment.

He swings wide, aiming for Wrench’s jaw, but his arm is quickly blocked. Wrench retaliates with a sharp blow to Numbers’ stomach, sending him reeling backwards against the wall.

For a huge, lumbering asshole, Wrench could be pretty fucking fast at times.

Numbers pulls himself to his feet and glares at his partner. Wrench looks nowhere near as bad as him; his left eye is a bit swollen, and his turtleneck torn at the corner, but that’s all the damage Numbers could manage. He just stands there, lips curled into a snarl and fists clenched at his sides, waiting for Numbers to make the next move.

Numbers isn’t sure if there’s any merit in continuing. Arguing over whose fault it was that one of their targets had escaped with Fargo’s bag of money had gotten him nowhere, and his Plan B option—trying to pound his point into Wrench’s thick skull—is quickly proving to be a losing battle.

“Fuck you.” He spits, but it’s far too weak to even come close to Wrench, landing on the carpet somewhere between them.

Wrench staggers forward, pulls back his fist and lets fly, striking the wall beside Numbers’ head.

Numbers flinches. That punch wasn’t meant for him. He knows Wrench never misses.

But there’s no time to ponder Wrench’s true intentions before his hands are on him again, snatching Numbers by the collar of his shirt and slamming him into the wall. The force of it rattles a nearby piece of SMA—Shitty Motel Art—and it tumbles to the floor with a crash. Neither seem to care about the mess and destruction and DNA they’re leaving all over the place. Wrench’s eyes are burning into his, and Numbers scowls back, refusing to relent. There’s a tightness around his throat as Wrench twists his fists in the fabric. Numbers expects it to only get worse from there, Wrench looming over him, his breath hot on his face, teeth bared, ready to bite…

What he doesn’t expect is to feel Wrench’s lips against his, kissing him hard.

Numbers panics, starts thrashing about—legs kicking and fists slamming into Wrench’s sides, doing little to dent those impressive muscles. In one seamless motion, Wrench grabs Numbers’ wrists and pins them above his head, rolling his hips forward to still him. He shoves back against his mouth—rough, angry—forcing Numbers’ lips apart and licking across his teeth.

It’s warm—no, hot—Wrench’s tongue circling his own, making his entire body feel like it’s about to combust. He stops struggling, lets himself go limp in Wrench’s arms, and Wrench grows gentler, lightly sucking on his bottom lip, moving up to lick the blood from below his nose. Numbers can hear him moaning softly, above the sound of his own gasps. His cock begins to swell against Wrench’s thigh.

Why? Is this just adrenaline? Anger? Making them lose their sensibilities?

Fuck no. Numbers wants Wrench. He’s wanted him practically from the start, wanted to feel their bodies pressed together, wanted to fuck him, make him moan and cry and come for him. Only it’s harder to do those things when the person you’re lusting after works with you on a daily basis. When one wrong move, one distraction could kill you both. In their line of work, there’s no time for thinking with your dick.

But Numbers couldn’t give a shit about that right now. He  _wants_  Wrench. And Wrench is practically giving him permission.

He kisses him back, hungrily, sucking and biting. There are hands on his hips now, and the taste of blood pricks his tongue, but it’s fresh blood—Wrench’s blood. Numbers grips the back of Wrench’s shirt, tugging hard, wanting him naked, closer, right fucking now.

The next few minutes go by in a blur. They’re both clawing at each other’s clothes, scratching into bare skin. Numbers is certain that some of his buttons will be missing afterwards, but once everything has been stripped off and tossed away, all he can think of is how badly he needs to touch Wrench. He’s overwhelmed with it.

He reaches for Wrench, wraps his arms around his neck and leans up to kiss him again, but Wrench pushes him away, spinning him around and shoving him face-first against the wall. Numbers is too far gone to care. All he can do is kiss the hideous wallpaper and rock his hips backwards as Wrench ruts his cock in the crack of his ass.

Numbers tries to stifle his moans, tries not to make it sound so obvious to the rooms on either side of them that two men are fucking like crazy in there, too keyed up to even use a bed.

He quickly gives up. Fuck them; let them know how good it feels.

They slide together at a furious pace, Wrench gripping Numbers’ cheeks to increase the friction on his cock, growling and biting the back of his neck like an animal. It isn’t long before Wrench clamps his teeth down hard, and Numbers feels the hot splash of come against his back, the frantic pace of Wrench’s breath on his shoulder as he stills his hips.

He hasn’t the time to even move before Wrench is roughly forcing him around, sticky skin pressed to the wall again. His lips seek Numbers’ throat, hand diving below to wrap around his cock. Numbers groans as Wrench strokes him quickly, his cock already slick and slippery with precome, desperate for release. He grabs onto Wrench’s shoulders, pulls him down closer so he can feel everything—every last moan and shudder. His mouth is hot on his throat, sucking and marking him, his hand squeezing and pulling so skillfully. Numbers digs his nails into Wrench’s skin and comes, dragging Wrench with him as he slumps against the wall in exhaustion.

His throat burns from panting so much; his arms sink heavily to his sides. He sniffles through the dried blood clogging his nostrils and looks up at his partner. They stay that way for a moment, all shaky breaths and glassy eyes and solemn faces, neither trying to communicate. Then, Wrench takes a step back.

_Sorry._

Numbers shrugs as calmly as he possibly can, considering what’s just happened.  _It’s OK. We were stressed. We needed it._

_I meant I’m sorry about your nose_ , Wrench clarifies.  _Not about this._  He sweeps a trembling hand down between their nude bodies.  _I liked this._

_Me too._  He breathes a short laugh, though it comes out more as a sigh, then adds,  _And I’m sorry about your eye._

Wrench doesn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch like they want to. He reaches out with his left hand and gently taps the tip of Numbers’ nose.  _You need to clean off._

Numbers nods, then points to Wrench’s right hand, still damp with his come.  _You too._

The air of chaos that had surrounded them mere minutes ago is now oddly tranquil. Wrench’s brashness appears to have fled with his anger, and he seems content to just stand there—hands at his sides, lips slightly parted—staring at Numbers until morning. But after a minute or so, Numbers finds the silence hard to bear, and decides to push forward.

_Can I help you wash up? I feel terrible about the fight. I want to set things right between us._

Slowly, as if he’s still sifting through the aftermath, Wrench nods his head.

Numbers smiles, and offers his hand, which Wrench takes with little hesitation. As they stumble towards the bathroom, Numbers finds it amusing that he’s actually looking forward to apologizing. For once, he has more interesting means of atonement.


	21. Guys Bein' Adorable Dudes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Too damn cute (and pretty damn safe, just some dirty talk)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/101985968435/when-they-first-start-working-together-numbers-is) _"When they first start working together, Numbers is afraid to be anything but a super manly man around Wrench. Wrench is so gigantic and testosterone-y and masculine after all, he must lose respect for men who show any emotions or signs of weakness, right? But as they grow closer and eventually get together, Wrench notices how hard Numbers is working to keep his manly face on 24/7 and tells him he can be himself around Wrench, no matter what."_

It’s the fifth time they’ve watched  _Die Hard_  this month, and Wrench has had more than his fill of violence and action. They see that shit every day at work; for once, he just wants to relax with some fucking cartoons.

And it just so happens that the only thing on TV at the time is the  _Rainbow Brite_ movie.

 _This is the G-A-Y-E-S-T thing ever_ , Numbers bitches.

Wrench shifts on the couch and raises his eyebrows as if to say Are you kidding me?  _More than me fucking you up the ass?_

_You know what I mean. This is for girls. Act like a man._

_I am a man. I’m a man who wants to watch a show about kids with magical happy S-P-R-I-N-K-L-E-P-O-W-E-R-S. You want to repossess my dick for that?_

Numbers rolls his eyes.  _Whatever. Let’s just drop it._

 _No. Let’s not._  Wrench sighs when Numbers turns away as usual, and begins poking and prodding him until he’s got his attention again.  _You’ve been doing this again lately, and I’m tired of it._

_Doing what?_

_Don’t pretend you don’t know. You complain about the things we watch._

_Only when it’s something stupid._

_You go on a steak binge._

_So? I always pay for you._

_You wear that cologne that smells like sawdust and feet._

Numbers squints in disbelief, and sniffs the collar of his shirt.

_You throw your back out because you won’t let me help you carry a body._

_Look, I don’t need you to coddle me like a baby,_ he signs angrily.  _I’m an adult man, OK?_

_See? That’s what I’m talking about!_

Wrench leans in for a kiss, but Numbers swerves to the side. They dance awkwardly like this for a moment until Wrench manages to pin him down and press their lips together. He only laughs at the pissed-off expression on his partner’s face once he pulls away. 

 _You used to act like this when we first started working together. Like being around someone bigger and stronger than you meant you had to grow an extra layer of chest hair and start chopping down trees._ He gives Numbers a playful jab on the arm.  _Insecure?_

Numbers grumbles something under his breath and crosses his arms defiantly. 

 _OK, so maybe I can understand you feeling that way when we first met, but we’ve been together for almost four months now._ Wrench refrains from using the word  _dating_ ; he’s still not entirely sure what this thing between the two of them is, but it’s probably the closest they can ever get to a normal couple in their profession. And after finishing a job, Numbers  _does_  take him out for a fancy dinner. So, yeah, kind of like dating, with torture/murder on the side.

But Numbers still doesn’t seem to get his point, so Wrench switches gears. 

_You know what I like to do every once in a while? Take a bubble bath._

For a second, Numbers seems confused. Then, he starts laughing.  _Are you serious?_

Wrench nods.  _Yeah. It’s something I’ve always liked. Long before I met you. I’m surprised you haven’t found my bottle of lavender bubble bath yet. I know how you love to S-N-O-O-P._

He licks his lips, flashes Wrench a huge smile.  _You’re not making this up? No bullshit?_

_Nope. I’m not afraid to be myself around you. And you should feel the same. You know I don’t care if you like using strawberry-scented hair gel or whether you can tow a pickup truck with a rope tied to your balls. Stop trying to fit yourself into some one-dimensional category._

His words seem to cheer Numbers up, and Wrench decides to push him just a little further…

 _So…Do you want to take a bubble bath with me?_ In response, he receives a huff and an eye-roll.  _Really! You should try it. It’s so relaxing._

Numbers scoffs again, shaking his head. But Wrench can see his lips perk into a smile. 

_OK, sure. I guess I can try something different. If I like it, can we get strawberry-scented next time?_

Grinning, Wrench takes his hand and leads him to the bathroom.


	22. You Can Drool on Me if You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Fluffy sickficlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/103521831460/sick-wrenchers-headcanon-because-im-sick-feel) _"(sick wrenchers headcanon because I'm sick & feel like bleh) Whenever Numbers gets sick, he tries to pretend he's fine for as long as possible. But Wrench can immediately tell by the way he stumbles into the living room that Numbers isn't feeling well. His face is flushed, his eyes are watery, & his hair is a wild mess. Numbers tries to deny that he's sick, but it's a bit difficult to sign when he's having a coughing fit. He soon gives in to the harsh reality that he knows is about to happen. Wrench is going to take care of him. Correction, /coddle/ him. It annoys Numbers to no end, but it’s how Wrench handles him being sick. The man will even go as far as to pick up Numbers & carry him if he thinks he should. That’s not to say Wrench’s caretaking doesn’t have its perks; Numbers can curl up & sleep w/ his head resting on Wrench’s chest, & he doesn’t even mind that Numbers has a runny nose & is drooling on him. He’s pretty content to pet Numbers’ hair & provide body heat."_

It was hard enough for Numbers to wrap his head around the idea of needing another person to look after him. He was a grown man, strong and independent, even when sick as a fucking dog and barely able to crawl out of bed the fifteen or so feet to the bathroom, if only to puke up things he hadn’t remembered eating in the first place.

But even harder to admit was how a small part of him actually enjoyed being taken care of, how he found himself craving the comfort of another’s touch. Just until he was feeling more like himself, of course.

It was in the midst of arguing with himself yet again that he caved and decided to message Wrench.

He’d called him over under the pretense of wanting to show off his new gun, but the instant Numbers opened the door, he knew Wrench could see exactly what was going on. It became even more apparent in the stern look he threw at him while signing,  _Bed. Now.,_ in a tone vastly different than the one he usually adopted with those particular words.

As much as the “loner asshole” side of his brain fought back, as much as he bitched and argued and lied that  _It’s just allergies, I swear!_ , Numbers was glad to have Wrench close by. It made him happy to think that someone cared enough to fluff his pillows and change out his sweat-dampened sheets. Someone was thoughtful enough to run out to the pharmacy for more cough syrup and toilet paper. Someone loved him enough to rub his back while he vomited, and carry him to bed whenever he stubbornly tried to leave the apartment, as annoying as that may have been. Wrench even made him chicken soup, though it was just canned broth, KFC and instant rice. Thankfully, he stopped just short of spoon-feeding it to him.

And when Numbers slept, Wrench wrapped his arms around him, warming him through the chills. And when he woke in a cold sweat hours later, Wrench helped him into dry pajamas. 

And when the morning came, and he awoke with his head on Wrench’s chest, on the edge of a puddle that was roughly 50% snot, 50% drool, Wrench didn’t complain. He only smiled and pressed a soft kiss to Numbers’ hair, gently stroking the back of his head.

He’d only be sick for a few more days, but Numbers thought he could spend every morning like this. Minus the snot, of course.


	23. Have You Had Your Fuckbreak Today?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit, 3rd person POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/103521918956/wrench-and-numbers-each-getting-accidentally) _"Wrench and Numbers each getting accidentally turned on by their partner to the point that they need to either leave the room or have sex right here right now I don't care if you're busy washing dishes or writing something down or torturing that guy I will bend you over the back of this chair I stg now let me suck your dick"_

Jimmy “Ratface” Rodriguez isn’t quite sure what the fuck is going on right now. One second, he’s being worked over by some goons from Fargo, and the next…

Well, whatever plans the fuckers had for him seemed to change the minute the tall guy in the ugly cowboy jacket started punching him in the face. When the stars faded from in front of his eyes and he stopped whining into the piece of duct tape over his mouth, he noticed the shorter, bearded guy waving his hands angrily at the other and the other countering with angry hand-waving of his own, the two having some sort of secret conversation. He thought maybe it was sign language or something—he’d seen some shit like that on  _Sesame Street_  once—but he had no fucking clue what they were saying. They were just glaring at each other, and…and the cowboy pointed down at his crotch and then to the other’s, and the hairy one pointed at his neck, and  _Fuck, they’re gonna rip my balls off and shove ‘em down my throat_ , he thought, straining at the zip-ties binding his wrists to the chair.  _That must be what they do to squealers._

But instead, they stormed off to an empty office just to the right of where they’d had him tied up. 

He’s not sure how long they’ve been in there—three minutes? Five? But whatever they’re doing certainly doesn’t sound like it involves plotting his death. 

He knows those sounds. And fuck if they aren’t making him even more confused. 

There’s the scraping of furniture. And creaking. Rhythmic creaking. Like fucking bedsprings or something. Grunting and slapping and squelching—

Like _fucking._

He hears a low, quiet groan that he doesn’t recognize. Must be the tall guy; he hadn’t said a word since they’d dragged him here. Then, there’s the other’s voice—he knows that one well, whiny motherfucker hadn’t shut up the whole time, asking all sorts of questions about Fargo and what other information he’s got on them—it’s louder, and in those words, there’s no mistaking what’s happening:

_“Fuck, yeah…harder. Pound that thick cock into my ass.”_

Jesus fucking christ why couldn’t they have just stuck around, given him a few more punches, maybe driven a knife into his ears? Jimmy glances frantically around the room—old warehouse, probably abandoned—gotta be an exit or two around here. There’s a nail gun about twenty feet away that the big guy had used while the other questioned him, a nail in each foot for every unacceptable answer. He can use it as a weapon when they come back, just needs to scoot close enough to it…

But his feet fucking ache to high hell. Shit, they might even be stuck to the floorboards. He rattles the chair a bit and moans, but it’s not nearly loud enough to mask the sounds from the other room.

_“Mmm…that’s good. Grab my dick. Yeah, faster…I fucking love it.”  
_

Jimmy closes his eyes, but all he sees is the image of those two bent over a desk or a chair, the bearded one gripping the edge with white knuckles as the cowboy fucks him like there’s no tomorrow. Fuck, he can even picture their faces—eyes squinted and mouths gaping, about to fucking blow…

_“Come inside me. Fucking come…come…”_

The creaking intensifies; the gasping and moaning just fucking unbearable. 

Had they planned this all along? Is this some form of homoerotic torture? Make him so uncomfortable he spills everything? Dear fuck, is he next? 

Finally, he hears things slowing down. The bearded guy’s voice is calmer, quieter, albeit a little unsteady. 

“Mmm…good. Lick it up…Stick your tongue in my asshole. Yeah, nice and deep…Slurp it all up…”

Things shifting around, footsteps moving—they’ll be coming back for him soon.

Jimmy holds his breath for what seems like an eternity, jumping at the squeal of the door on its hinges. The two step in front of him, both looking a bit disheveled despite whatever attempt they had made to clean themselves up. The shorter one has a small, damp stain towards the bottom of his shirt, his slicked-back hair sticking out in a few spots. The other is still quite red in the face and breathless. He can only guess at what they must smell like, the dried blood effectively clogging his nostrils. Thank fuck for that at least.

“Jimmy, Jimmy…Where were we again?” The bearded one starts. “You were being stubborn and didn’t want to tell us how the cops caught wind of the Jefferson drop-off. And my friend here had no choice but to pound it out of you.” He pauses to look back at the cowboy. “I’ve never known a squealer to be so goddamned quiet.”

He looks from the bearded man to the other, back and forth, perplexed. Are they really going to pretend that nothing had happened? That they didn’t stop to—to take a  _fuck break_  in the middle of torturing him? 

Maybe not. Maybe he could use this to his advantage. 

He shakes his head and mumbles into the tape, prompting the shorter man to instruct his companion to tear it off. “You ready to talk now, Jimmy?”

“Look, maybe I do know what happened with the drop. Maybe it goes deeper than you think.”

“Yeah? A rival syndicate is involved?”

Jimmy nods. “And if you let me go, I can cut you in on it. Lots of cash. You could both run away to some fucking tropical island or some shit.” Fuck if he knows the kind of stuff gay guys like. He figures other men in tight bathing suits is a good enough guess.

The bearded man looks confused by this suggestion. He raises an eyebrow and folds his arms over his chest.

Jimmy licks his lips, tastes the blood on them. He sniffles, his nose throbbing like fucking crazy. “And if you let me go, I swear I won’t say a thing to anyone about…about what the two of you were doing in there.”

Cowboy snorts a laugh at him, quickly tapping the other on the shoulder before his hands slice the air angrily. They keep it up for a minute or so, the shorter guy turning back to Jimmy as he hisses under his breath, "I am  _not_  that loud. Don’t talk too much. Not like you’d fucking know it. Your fault for not being able to wait.  _Unprofessional._ " He sighs, apparently finished arguing with himself.

"Jimmy. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. You just don’t know when to shut up.” The guy laughs, drawing his gun. “There’s no way we can let you live now.”

The last thought that races through Jimmy’s mind before the man pulls the trigger is  _I really hope they don’t fuck beside my corpse._

How embarrassing.  


	24. Numbers' Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Fluffy sweetness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/103522026590/numbers-has-ocd-exact-compulsions-up-to-you) _"numbers has ocd (exact compulsions up to you). wrench knows this, and sometimes uses it to be an asshole. ie, flicking hair out of place, popping a button on his coat so he has to redo them all, taking a sip of numbers’ coffee at a diner and watching him freak out and order a new one. BUT he also uses his knowledge sometimes to be very sweet like waiting patiently while numbers locks and relocks their door five times, always carrying some hand sanitizer in his pocket, making sure their shitty hotel room number is always divisible by three or what have you. and god help anyone that teases numbers about it. wrench will come down on them like (pardon the pun) a hammer."_

The first few times it happened, Wrench had taken it as a joke—same as the night the other syndicate members had offered to take their newest asset out for drinks, and one had grinned and passed him a cocktail napkin that read  _‘There’s a reason they call your partner Numbers.’_

It wasn’t until their tenth job, and the umpteenth time Numbers had paused in the doorway of their motel room to flick the light switch on exactly six times before entering, that Wrench realized this wasn’t just some prank to break in the new guy.

Numbers had compulsions.

Initially, he’d found most of Numbers’ tics aggravating: From the way he tapped his spoon against the rim of his coffee mug, to his habit of pausing mid-conversation to snap his fingers in quick succession— _each_ _six times_. Wrench often thought of how much worse it would have been if he had been able to  _hear_ all of it as well; how he probably would have done what Numbers’ former partners may have only dreamed about—put him out of his damn misery. Wrench had a certain level of patience, but Numbers had done his best to wear it thin. Whether he’d known it or not. 

They argued over it a lot, Numbers constantly apologizing and trying to explain things so that Wrench would understand. But Wrench had thought it was stupid, and didn’t want to understand. He thought that his partner should grow up and quit being such a whiny asshole about the number of knots Wrench used to tie up their victim, or how many ice cubes were in his glass of water, and what did it matter if their motel room wasn’t divisible by three? He’d taken his frustrations out on the walls and furniture on more than one occasion, and had spent far too much time hesitating outside the Boss’ door, clutching a crumpled piece of paper on which he’d printed his ultimatum:  _‘I need a new partner.’_

Still, despite every little annoyance, Wrench hung on. Because for all his idiosyncrasies and anxieties, Numbers never let his disorder affect the quality of his work. He was good at his job, and being good at your job was something that kept people like them alive and kicking. And above that, he was kind to Wrench. He went shopping with him, helped him pick out nice clothing to wear. He paid for his meals, no matter how shitty or fancy the restaurant. 

But what mattered most was that he  _talked_  with him. Wrench didn’t have any friends. Even some of the guys he’d taught fingerspelling to hadn’t put much effort into communication. Numbers had already known ASL, had said he’d learned it as a way to manage his OCD—to keep his hands and mind busy with speaking. But he didn’t have to talk to Wrench. He didn’t have to spend hours chit-chatting with him about the news or the weather or what Wrench had thought he might be doing if he had stayed on the straight and narrow. He could have ignored him like so many others had.

It could have been just another of his compulsions for all Wrench cared. It felt good to be acknowledged, to finally find a place where he fit in. To find someone he could maybe call a friend. And he wanted to get closer. 

He found himself falling for Numbers.

He started performing small kindnesses for him, like making sure the dial of his car radio was tuned to an even-numbered station before stopping to pick Numbers up, or buying six bags of his favorite junk food at once, or working a guy over in sets of three punches at a time until he spilled whatever information they were after.

And once he’d decided to make his move, Wrench even asked Numbers if it was alright to kiss him—if he could do it once, or if there was a certain way he should go about it, so as not to upset him. He was beyond overjoyed when Numbers smiled and said,  _I want you to kiss me so many times that I lose count._

Wrench knew how to make him smile.

And he learned other things throughout their evolving relationship that made the struggle of the first months worthwhile. Like the way Numbers would blush when he caught Wrench staring down a syndicate jerk who’d had the gall to mock his disorder. Or how adorably flustered he’d get whenever Wrench would reach over during their car ride and pop open an uneven amount of buttons on his shirt. How his scowl would break into a grin as he undid them all and carefully re-buttoned each.

Wrench especially liked to tease Numbers about his insistence on always sleeping on the left side of the bed. 

_But how do you judge true left? Is it when we’re standing at the foot of the bed, facing it? Or are we already in bed?_

Though half of the time, that little argument backfired, leaving Wrench to sleep on the floor alone. 

The other half ended with Numbers curled up against him, as close to the center of the bed as possible. Neither position offered Wrench much in the way of sleep, but for a shot at having Numbers’ arms wrapped tightly around him, he’d gladly take the risk.


	25. I Only Have Eyes for that Koala Booty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamstralian, Ham Sandwich - Cute (slightly dirty) OT3-ness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/103524142475/hammer-letters-and-the-aussie-are-out-on-the) _"Hammer, Letters and the Aussie are out on the town. They have a habit of pointing out hot people to each other, and when the Aussie spots a particularly strapping young gentleman at the other end of the bar, he taps Letters on the shoulder and gestures towards him. "Wow, that guy is way too hot to be in this dump. No offense, boys." Aussie looks to Hammer for backup so they can get all "offended" at Letters' comment, but Hammer is too busy staring at the guy. But now Aussie is really offended- Since when does Hammer check out other dudes?? Aussie thought he was the only guy Hammer was into! The Aussie always felt special for it, but now he just feels jealous and sad. Letters didn’t even notice Hammer staring, but now she’s all wide-eyed and interested. Hammer had always said he was straight with an exception, but now this?"_

He’s still moping about twenty minutes later, long after the conversation has ended. Hammer hadn’t even stopped to take a second look at the guy as he passed him en route to the men’s room. As far as Letters is concerned, there’s nothing to be this pissy about.

“Oh for the love of fuck…” Letters rolls her eyes and jabs Aussie in the arm with her elbow. “You do know that whole ‘I’m straight but I’ll make an exception for you’ thing is a load of horseshit? He gets off just from sucking your dick. He lets you jizz on his face. Hell, he didn’t even bat an eye when I pulled out my double-ender and told the two of you to go ‘ass-to-ass!’ Oz, babe, he’s into dudes." 

"I know…” The Aussie sighs, and Letters can almost hear his disappointment over the shrill sound of Alanis Morissette playing on the jukebog. “It’s just…well, I thought I was special. Y’know, like the bloke who navigated the endless bush and fucked the immovable wallaby.”

“OK, I don’t wanna know what the fuck that means, so I’m just gonna assume you’re toasted right now.” She throws back her shot of vodka and waves the bartender for another. “Besides, you  _are_ special. You think he’d let any other guy spoon him?”

"Well…”

“Or teach him how to walk in stiletto heels?”

“That was only that one time…”

Letters grips his chin, tilting his head up so he can’t look away. “Oz, baby, he kisses you goodbye before work every morning. You’re the most special guy in his life besides his brother. And if you don’t believe me, then ask him.” 

She finishes just as Hammer sidles up beside them, and with a soft pat on Aussie’s cheek, quietly heads off in the direction of the restrooms. Aussie shifts nervously in his seat, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Fortunately, Hammer chimes in first:

“You, uh, you think that guy down there was hotter than me?”

“What?” He’s not certain he’s heard that right. “You don’t think—” But he stops himself, a bit embarrassed that they seem to have the same worries spinning through their heads. “I mean, of course he isn’t.” Aussie laughs, and gives Hammer a playful punch on the shoulder. “Don’t think I’ve seen an arse as nice as yours outside of Canberra."

A smile plays across Hammer’s face. “You got me there, ya hot piece of koala meat.” He claps Aussie on the back, a gesture that quickly evolves into an awkward, one-armed hug. Aussie leans against his chest, sliding his hand around to grab that sweet Southern booty. 

"And I love you too, mate.”


	26. Finger-Fucking Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit finger fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/103524510090/numbers-hasnt-been-learning-asl-for-too-long-and) _"Numbers hasn't been learning ASL for too long and signing isn't second nature to him yet. When he gets hard and all the blood flows away from his brain, he can barely remember how to fingerspell. Wrench can read Numbers' lips just fine, so it's usually not a big deal, but sometimes Wrench gets all smug and teases him. He'll say, "I want to make you're okay with this. Sign it to me that you want it." That only makes Numbers more frustrated, and it gets more difficult for him to sign."_

Wrench does it for two reasons. The first being, well, it’s just plain fucking funny.

He’ll have Numbers writhing on the bed beneath him, fit to burst at any moment: His cock flushed and leaking, ass slick and throbbing around his fingers as Wrench rolls the tips of them against his prostate. He can see him moaning, can see how his hands shake as he grips his knees to his chest, his lips curving around “More” and “Good.” 

“Fuck me, please.”

And that’s when Wrench decides to do just that, though not in the way Numbers had hoped.

He slides his fingers out slowly, eyes never leaving Numbers’ face, watching with a smirk as Numbers licks his lips, nods for Wrench to go ahead.

 _Are you sure you’re ready?_  Wrench’s right hand glistens with lube as he signs.  _I could work another finger in, give you a **nice, long, hot** massage. _He draws the words out, raising his eyebrows and running his tongue over his top lip seductively. 

Numbers nods again, mouthing “I’m ready. Just fuck me.” He very well can’t sign holding his legs up like that. Hell, he can barely remember what Wrench has taught him when he isn’t in such compromising positions. 

But Wrench isn’t going to let that ruin his fun.

He eases forward, rubbing the head of his cock across Numbers’ asshole in slow circles—a clear tease if ever there was one. When Wrench finally stops and begins to push against it, he can see the relief wash over Numbers, every muscle seeming to relax at once.

And then he pulls away, and  _holy fuck_  if Numbers had his gun Wrench is positive he’d pistol-whip him with it. He can almost feel him whining as he asks,  _Are you sure you want this?_

“Fuck yes please stop fucking around already.” Numbers’ nails leave little white half-moons on the undersides of his thighs.

 _Sorry, I couldn’t read that._ It’s total bullshit, but a lie Wrench has always liked keeping. Useful when he doesn’t want to be bothered by hearing folk; doubly useful when he wants to toy with his hearing lover.  _Can you sign it to me, please?_

Numbers throws his head back, grits his teeth and lets his legs flop to the mattress. His fingers clench and straighten, try to work themselves into something coherent. He holds an  _F_ , and his other hand forms an  _I,_ and then he’s ramming one into the other…

Wrench laughs. Nice try, but that’s not proper fingerspelling. He wrinkles his nose and shrugs a  _What?_ before gently caressing the inside of Numbers’ thigh, running fingers lightly over his swollen balls, his twitching cock, swiping across the drooling slit once or twice before drawing back again.  _  
_

Now, Numbers is starting to lose it. His hands curl into odd shapes, fingers trying to grind together in some filthy message while his lips beg “Jesus-Fucking-Christ! Just shove your cock in me, you asshole!”

_Did you say something about your asshole? Are you sore from the other day? Want me to stop?_

And that’s when Numbers snaps and heaves himself up, grabbing Wrench by the shoulders and yanking him down onto his back. Wrench grins as he watches Numbers frantically climb on top of him and try to steady his hands long enough to guide the cock he’s so desperate for into his poor, forsaken ass.

As for the second reason? Well, Wrench can think of few things more enjoyable than having his boyfriend ride him like he’s shooting for first place at the Cock Rodeo.


	27. While You Were Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit, why some folks choose to cover their couches in plastic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/106524332305/wrench-doesnt-usually-hide-his-relationships-from) _"Wrench doesn't usually hide his relationships from his brother, but Hammer absolutely despises Numbers. Wrench figures that for now it's easier to sneak around than to tell Hammer that he and Numbers are seeing each other. The idea of having sex on the couch in Wrench and Hammer's living room when Hammer could come home any minute really turns Numbers on. Wrench usually doesn't want to take any chances and tells Numbers no, but today Numbers is very persuasive and convinces him."_

_“You don’t need to be able to hear me to know how P-E-R-S-U-A-S-I-V-E I can be with my mouth.”_

It was the first pick-up line Numbers had used on him, half-spoken-half-signed (with a wink and a grin) after their fourth or fifth job together—a bold response to a compliment Wrench had given him on his interrogation skills. It was far from the cheesiest he’d seen, and nowhere near the sexiest, but it had been enough to get him to quickly drag Numbers from the bar and back to their motel, eager to test the validity of that statement.

And  _Oh_ , how true it had been.

Wrench stifles a laugh at how well that line has held up over time, as Numbers places warm, sloppy kisses along his neck, pressing him back against the couch he’d sat on with his brother only hours ago, the two of them watching  _Jerry Springer_  while Hammer intermittently bitched about having to run down to the office on what was supposed to be his day off. He doesn’t know how long Hammer has been gone, but he glances towards the door every few seconds when his eyes will allow him. It’s getting increasingly harder to keep them open, though, with the way Numbers is rubbing against him, hand massaging his cock through his jeans, teeth scraping along his jaw, tongue curling below his earlobe. He gasps at the thought of that mouth around his dick—soft lips framed by bristly hair—his hips bucking against Numbers’ palm.

Wrench bites his lip to keep quiet, but he’s fighting a losing battle. He can feel the moans begin to bubble and vibrate in his throat, growing stronger with each kiss, each squeeze, each swipe of Numbers’ hand across his crotch. Once more, his eyes flit to the door—less ten feet away—and he miraculously finds the willpower to gently push Numbers off. He bring his hands up to speak, but Numbers’ attention is focused elsewhere, a devious smile playing across his face as he goes straight for Wrench’s belt, his fingers never nimbler than when they’re trying to undress him. Five seconds and he’s tugging at the elastic of Wrench’s briefs, close to yanking his cock free, before Wrench manages to grab his wrists.

Numbers reluctantly tears his gaze from Wrench’s groin, lips pursed and puppy-dog eyes blinking longingly as he mouths a disappointed “What?”

Wrench glares at the meaningless tattoo peeking out from below Numbers’ collar. Right, as if his partner had any fucking “Boundaries.” He cautiously lets his fingers slip from around Numbers’ wrists, and— _thankfully_ —those hands remain still on his lap.  _We can’t do this now. My brother could be home any minute._

Numbers laughs, raising his eyebrows incredulously.  _So? You told me he already knows you like men._

Well,  _obviously_  Hammer would know that. Granted, it had taken him quite some time to warm up to the idea of Wrench fucking other men, and it had taken Wrench even longer to accept that Hammer’s constant threats against his boyfriends had more to do with genuine concern for his little brother than his latent homophobia. But after so many years of it, Wrench really couldn’t give two shits about whatever Hammer did to whatever guy he’d chosen to screw that week. Besides, it wasn’t like they’d made it a habit to stick around anyplace long enough for more than a one night stand or a casual fling.

Numbers, on the other hand, was a different case. Wrench liked him a lot. And that attraction went beyond his good looks and his gorgeous body and his smell and the way he’d wake Wrench up some mornings by making a breakfast of his asshole. It’d been eight months since he and his brother had arrived in Fargo, almost seven since he’d started this relationship with Numbers, and as things appeared to be going smoothly on all fronts, Wrench had decided he’d like to keep his new man around for as long as possible. Hell, maybe even make him part of the family, regardless of Hammer’s opinions.

Of course, it certainly didn’t help that Hammer had shown an irrational distaste for Numbers from practically the minute they’d met. He’d even blackened his eye once after he’d caught Numbers looking at him the wrong way. ( _“It’s not my fault you both look the same from behind! Maybe you should wear a bullseye on your ass, so I know which one is safe for me to stare at.”)_

Shit, does Wrench really need to spell it out for him?

_I also told you I haven’t figured out how to explain the two of us to him just yet._ He pauses for a moment, mulling over his thoughts, his fingers plucking at the hem of his grandfather’s faded army blanket draped across the back of the sofa.  _He thinks we spend all our time together planning different jobs._

_Yeah._ Numbers licks his lips and grins. _Hand jobs, blow jobs, rim jobs—is he that naive?_

Wrench sighs.  _Can you please take this seriously? You know how Hammer feels about you. I’d use the word ‘hate,’ but I think it’s too kind._

_And how is that our problem? Is he going to beat me up after class? Shove me in a locker? Give me another black eye?_

Wrench decides not to bring up some of the other guys who’ve had the misfortune of getting on Hammer’s bad side: Timmy Jackson from the Varsity football team, or Randall McAllister from Oklahoma State, or that guy from Des Moines who’d ended up with twenty stitches and a colostomy bag. Instead, he opts for a more generic warning:  _If he catches us like this, he might go nuts. Might try to rip your dick off._ He pats Numbers’ knee and offers a sly smile.  _And you know how much I love your dick, babe. I’d hate to see you lose it._

Numbers nods solemnly, pressing his lips together. He glances from Wrench’s face back down to his crotch, watching as Wrench starts to reposition himself inside his pants. Then, just as Wrench is fastening his top button, Numbers launches at him, biting his throat and trying to force his hand into his underwear. 

Seriously? Wrench might be deaf, but Numbers is the one with the fucking listening problem. 

Wrench ignores the allure of fingertips on his cock, and shoves Numbers hard against the opposite end of the couch. He shakes his head in disbelief, unsure if he should lecture his partner on the meaning of the word “NO” or just throw him out so he can jerk off in the bathroom in peace. He’ll certainly be doing plenty of that if Hammer were to walk in on the two of them.

But Numbers is relentless when he’s horny.  _Look, he left about an hour ago, right? Went to discuss files with the Aussie? The way that guy likes to talk, he’ll probably be there until midnight._ He grins, flashing that infectious smile of his—the kind that could convince a nun to take up stripping.  _So let’s have some fun, OK?_

They could go back and forth with this argument all damn afternoon, but now Numbers is sliding a hand along Wrench’s cheek, fingertips tickling the short hairs at the back of his neck. Wrench leans forward, like he’s done so often it’s become second nature to him, welcoming Numbers’ lips against his own. Images of his brother barreling through the door are long forgotten, replaced by the soft warmth of Numbers’ tongue, the feel of flesh prickling beneath his fingers as he tugs Numbers’ shirt from the waist of his pants and drags his hand through fuzzy chest hair. 

Well…maybe they could be quick about it. 

He huffs a laugh against Numbers’ lips before relaxing back into the cushions.  _Hurry up already_ , he says, pointing towards his dick. 

Numbers doesn’t need to be told twice. He smirks, signs a quick  _I always wanted to do this here_ , and before Wrench has a chance to decipher what the fuck he means by that (Here _where?_  On a couch? Couldn’t they have just done that at Numbers’ place?), he’s got his cock out and is busy gobbling him down as far as his throat will allow. 

Mmmm, he’s so good at that. Wrench runs his fingers through thick, dark hair, petting gently as Numbers works him over with that “persuasive” mouth, sucking and slurping until everything is dripping-sloppy-wet. His breathing grows ragged, his hand trailing over Numbers’ neck, his back, feeling his heart pound excitedly, his body rolling like a wave as he bobs around his cock. Numbers groans when Wrench’s right hand settles on his ass and squeezes. He gazes up, and Wrench signs slowly with his left,  _P-A-N-T-S-O-F-F._

There’s a mad glint in Numbers’ eyes as he lifts off of Wrench’s dick and rises onto his knees. Wrench can’t keep from touching him while he works open his buckle and fly, running his hands over those smooth, firm ass cheeks, sinking his teeth into that soft stomach, biting through the fabric of his shirt. He eases back once Numbers has got his pants down around his thighs, admiring the sight before him: Numbers panting and shaking, his balls tense, cock flushed a deep pink, the head damp with oh-so-delicious precome. Wrench would love nothing more than to lap it up—to drain every last mouthwatering drop—but they haven’t got the time for it. So he makes a mental note to gorge himself on Numbers’ cock the next chance he gets, and instead quickly slips a finger between Numbers’ cheeks, pressing it against his asshole.

It’s slick,  _slippery_. Definitely not what Wrench was expecting. He draws his hand back in surprise, shooting Numbers a confused look, but Numbers only laughs, nodding as if to say  _You’re goddamn right I prepared myself for you._

_Why_ , though, is what Wrench would like to know. But he really can’t be bothered trying to pick apart this sneaky motherfucker’s brain at the moment. Numbers is turning himself around, nudging Wrench’s legs open and settling down between them, and Wrench doesn’t want to miss his favorite part of the show. He grips Numbers’ cheeks, spreading them wide and watching hungrily as Numbers’ hairy asshole swallows him inch-by-inch.

The heat, the tightness of him never fails to make Wrench breathless. His hips are pressed against Wrench’s groin, his back to Wrench’s chest. Wrench places his left hand on Numbers’ waist, gentle pressure urging him on, and Numbers slowly begins to move.

Even at this pace, it’s fucking  _amazing,_  but Wrench knows they can never keep things this leisurely for very long. When Numbers starts to speed up, hips rocking and ass grinding into him, Wrench pulls him closer, needing to feel his moans, getting off on how badly he can make Numbers fall apart for him. Today, the vibrations are uncharacteristically weak, as if Numbers is holding back, but his chest rapidly swells and falls with short, staccato breaths, the occasional sharp gasp. It’s good enough for Wrench, and he grins and snakes his right hand around to stroke Numbers’ dripping cock.

He swipes his palm over the slick head a few times before wrapping his fingers around his length.  _Ah_ , there’s the moan he wanted to feel. Wrench works his slippery hand around Numbers’ cock as Numbers bounces faster on his lap, like they’re both racing to see who can make the other come first. Wrench thinks he might be the loser in that match. 

His senses are growing overwhelmed: There’s a tightness pulsing around his cock, a cock throbbing in his hand, skin slapping against skin, the musky scent of sweat and cologne when he buries his nose in Numbers’ hair, the taste of salt on his tongue as he licks along the side of his neck. It’s almost too much, and Wrench shuts his eyes, so close to coming…

And suddenly, there’s a hand clutching his wrist, yanking his arm away, warmth torn from against his flesh, cold air rushing in, the scratch of the blanket over his exposed cock. It happens so fast, Wrench can’t even begin to process it. His eyes fly open, clouded with lust and confusion, and Numbers seems miles away down at the opposite end of the couch, hands running over his hair and beard, smoothing the front of his wrinkled shirt before resting atop the blanket on his lap. He stares straight ahead, and something clicks inside Wrench.

_Oh no._

There are four deadbolts on their apartment door. By the time Wrench realizes, the knob on the third is already turning. 

_Shit shit shit!_ He frantically turns to Numbers, but all he gets in return is a sideways glance and a hand pointing emphatically at his crotch. 

_Ah, Christ._ Wrench fumbles behind his back, prying out a throw pillow and shoving it over his (glaringly obvious) erection just as the door swings open.

Hammer enters slowly, hands at his sides, his eyebrows knit together in bewilderment at the sight of two men sharing a blanket together on their sofa. He reaches behind him to shut the door, gaze jumping from Wrench to Numbers and back again.  _What the hell is this?_

Wrench bites his top lip, his brain filtering through a list of excuses like a fucking sieve:  _We were just talking? Our dicks were cold, so we were trying to warm them up? My boyfriend is a horny bitch who can’t keep his mouth off of me for five minutes?_

He settles for the safest option.  _Nothing. We were just talking._ He quickly looks at Numbers, who smiles warmly in confirmation.

Hammer doesn’t seem to be swayed by Wrench’s lame excuse or Numbers’ sugary smile.  _Sounded like you were doing more than talking,_ he sneers at Wrench.  _Smells like it, too._

Fuck. Wrench nervously shakes his head and prays that’s enough to convince Hammer to walk away, because he hasn’t the foggiest idea what else to tell him other than the cold, hard truth. And  _that_  never works as smoothly as he’d like.

Fortunately, Numbers answers for him.  _It was cold in here. We threw on a blanket and turned the heat up, but I guess things got a little too hot and sweaty._ He taps Wrench on the shoulder and grins.  _Right?_

Wrench thinks he might just kill Numbers himself if Hammer doesn’t finish the job.

Though, from the look Hammer throws at Numbers, it seems unlikely that anything will be left for Wrench afterwards. He mutters something to him that Wrench doesn’t catch, to which Numbers only shrugs in reply, and Wrench thinks  _This is it_ —no more hot sex, no more meaningful conversations, no more making out in the backseat of his Buick or eating Scrunyuns off of Numbers’ balls—his brother is going to maim the both of them.

Which is why he’s beyond disbelief when Hammer waves a dismissive hand and stomps off towards his room, slamming the door so forcefully, Wrench can feel the shockwaves. He turns to Numbers for an explanation, but both of Numbers’ hands are occupied with putting himself away beneath the blanket. Wrench quickly does the same before slapping Numbers in the shoulder. He startles, lips forming an exaggerated “OW!”

_What was that for?_

_You tell me!_ He gestures in the direction Hammer went.

Numbers lazily shrugs one shoulder.  _He was shouting about not being able to deal with this right now. Said he’s got enough of a headache after listening to the Aussie for hours._ He winks,  _Looks like we got off easy._

_Easy? How am I supposed to handle him after you leave? How am I supposed to explain that we were fucking on the couch and we lied about it right to his face?_

_Look, he's_ ** _your_** _brother,_ Numbers retorts,  _ **you**  _ _figure it out. Of course, you can always stay at my place until you decide how to come clean with him._  He laughs and shakes his head.  _We could probably fuck on the couch right next to Letters for all she cares! As long as we keep it down enough for her to watch her soaps._

Wrench’s nostrils flare; he bites the inside of his cheek to keep his anger in check.  _This is your fault._  Hell, it was more than just that. It was almost as if Numbers had come over with the sole intent of getting his rocks off while Hammer was out running errands. Like a teenager or the plot of some godawful porno. He clenches and relaxes his fists. _You’re too reckless. It’s your fault this happened._

_My fault?_ he scoffs.  _I don’t remember you doing much to stop me._

That’s when Wrench learns that pillows aren’t just good for hiding boners; they’re equally as useful for silencing bullshitters. Though if Numbers pulls this crap again, Wrench promises to shove something a hell of a lot less fluffy in his face. 

……

[[EPILOGUE]]

Hammer isn’t fucking stupid. Yankees like that Numbers fucker—wherever the hell he’s from—they think all Southern boys are hicks, rolling around in mud and marrying cousins and not knowing if that’s a dick in their ass or if someone’s just blowing smoke up it.

He knows exactly what those noises were. Hell, he’s known pigs in heat to fuck quieter than his brother.

But as much as his waking mind would like to bury all thoughts of those two dicking around (for the love of fuck) for Wrench’s sake—for  _his own_ sanity—his subconscious torments him with the memory of that afternoon, hints he may have missed, things he could have done to keep them apart.

It’s the worst possible kind of nightmare.

He’ll be standing there by the door, just like on that day, and Numbers and his brother will be on the couch together, only this time…

They’re both completely naked, Wrench bent over the arm of the sofa while Numbers kneels behind him, his sleazy, fuzzball face buried between Wrench’s ass cheeks. Wrench has his eyes clenched shut, his face screwed up in pleasure as he rolls his hips back, making more noise than Hammer’s ever heard from him. Wrench is far too into it to notice Hammer frozen there, but Numbers— _that fucker_ —he sees him instantly, and simply cocks an eyebrow like he couldn’t be more delighted in his discomfort, all the while ravenously devouring Wrench’s asshole.

Hammer wakes in a cold sweat. 

Fuck, what’s the use in trying to fall back asleep? With his luck, he’ll dream about them fisting on his bed next.  _God fucking dammit_ why would he even think that?

He groans, hauling his legs over the side of the bed and rising groggily. It’s pitch black, and he gropes around for the light on the wall, cursing when his foot connects with the edge of the dresser. 

The light. Wrench always leaves the hall light on. Why should tonight be any different?

_Because Wrench isn’t here, dipshit_. The door to his room is ajar and his bed is neatly made. He didn’t even try to stuff a bunch of pillows under the blanket like they used to when they snuck out as teens. 

“Stupid cocksucker.” He grumbles it about Numbers, but the instant those words leave his lips, he regrets them. Of course. That’s probably what the bearded fucker is doing to his brother right now. Hammer can’t take much more of this shit.

He storms into the living room, snatching the phone from the table beside the couch. His first thought is to call Letters, ask if his brother is there and which testicle Numbers would like to keep. Shit, maybe just talking to her for a few minutes could calm him down a bit…

But what if those two  _are_  over there? What if he can hear them over the phone? Ruining Letters’ sweet voice with their awful moaning and gasping…

His eyes sweep over the length of the sofa, picking up on every little stain and smear, though he’s sure half of them had been there long before those two got their dicks anywhere near it. Fuck, probably should burn that thing, anyway. The blanket, too. Sorry, grandpa. 

The phone’s dial tone starts to throb in his ears, only adding to his irritation. He places it back in its cradle and thinks. Of course, he could think a hell of a lot better on a full night’s sleep.

Well…

With a sigh, Hammer picks up the phone and pages the one person whose incessant chatter just might be enough to drive the stomach-churning thoughts of Numbers and his brother from his head. 

He rings back almost immediately. 

“It’s feckin’ 2AM ya goddamn yabbo! What in bloody hell d'ya want?!”


	28. Cock Magic Mike and His Emporium of Bootyliciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Explicit stripteasing and the like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/106744207420/numbers-cant-decide-whether-he-likes-wrench-best) _"Numbers can’t decide whether he likes Wrench best in the summer or in the winter. In the summer Wrench wears skimpy little wifebeaters and shorts, so it’s nice to look at him all day long, and it takes him about .2 seconds to get naked. But in the winter, all the clothing he wears during the day makes it even more exciting to see him without it on at night, and even though it takes him longer to get naked, Numbers gets to enjoy the show of watching him strip off layer after layer."_

Numbers had never been one to frequent strip clubs. 

Sure, there are times when the job warrants a visit, but to be honest he’s always found them odd, pathetic places full of ugly men throwing money at women they’d never have a shot with otherwise. Numbers is too proud for that shit; he doesn’t need to pay to get some hot piece of ass to undress for him. 

Living with Wrench is already like having an all-access pass to the Buns and Balls Burlesque Show. With complimentary buffet.

It’s impossible not to stare whenever Wrench enters a room in just his underwear. He opts for this style of dress more often during the summer months when they’re between jobs. Their apartment is old, and the window unit barely works on a good day, but Numbers is confident Wrench would have little trouble fixing it…if he wanted to. But no, how could he deprive himself of the joy of seeing his partner all flustered and horny? Numbers knows Wrench gets off on it; he’ll catch the faintest hint of a smirk playing across his face, before his eyes are inevitably drawn lower.

Granted, Numbers has no room to complain when he enjoys it just as much as Wrench. He can think of few things better than seeing his boyfriend strut around in tight-fitting tank tops and boxers, swinging his hips and grazing his semi-hard cock against the back of the couch or edge of the kitchen table. And when he wears those low-cut designer briefs that Numbers had bought for him—smooth fabric gripping the curves of his ass; thick, ginger curls peeking out from above the waistband—well…Numbers will practically tear the rest of his clothes off and fuck him right then and there, to hell with breakfast or reruns of  _Welcome Back, Kotter_. 

Once the cold weather rolls in, though, Wrench’s performance changes drastically. Chalk it up to the addition of heavy, layered clothing, and Numbers’ increased libido.

_I thought bears were supposed to sleep in the winter_ , Wrench would often joke.  _It’s like your dick doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘H-I-B-E-R-N-A-T-I-O-N.’_

Comments like that usually earn him a middle finger…straight up the ass…while Numbers sucks him dry.

Why shouldn’t sex be the first thing on Numbers’ mind after finishing a job? It’s a reward for making it home safe, and a means of warming each other up after nights spent in the coldest, crappiest motels the northern US has to offer. 

He’ll pull Wrench into his arms the moment they walk through the door, kissing his icy, chapped lips, and alternating between tugging at Wrench’s clothes and stripping off his own. By the time their clumsy dance leads them halfway into the living room, Numbers is close to nude, and so worked up he’ll often try to pin Wrench to the couch or the floor, too impatient to wait any longer.

The burden falls on Wrench to keep him in check. If he wants more than a two-minute fuck, of course.

He’ll start by letting Numbers take off his fringed jacket and the one underneath that, before gently prying his hands away and working the buttons of his shirt himself. Numbers is generally too preoccupied with kissing and taking off his own socks and pants to notice how slowly Wrench’s fingers move. A minute or so later, and Numbers is down to his underwear, stumbling over pieces of clothing while pushing a still fully-dressed Wrench back towards the wall. Wrench will laugh and pull him closer, grind his leg between Numbers’ thighs, maybe slap his ass a few times—just enough teasing to make Numbers think he’s in store for some instant gratification. But instead, he’ll hook a finger under Numbers’ waistband and playfully tug him in the direction of the bedroom, stopping to pick up a piece of discarded clothing along the way.

Numbers could never stand keeping his hands to himself, especially not when what he desires is just within his grasp, but when Wrench instructs him to  _Lie down and relax_ , Numbers is more than willing to comply. He knows what Wrench has in store for him. And, fuck, is it well worth the wait.

Wrench will trail his fingers down the front of his shirt, popping each button open agonizingly slowly, his lips parted and eyes fixed on Numbers the entire time. Numbers likes to lean back against the headboard, running his hands over his body and gently stroking his cock, offering a little show of his own, though he mostly does it because he can’t help himself. Because he needs  _something_  to occupy his hands as he watches Wrench undress. He just can’t sit idly by as Wrench painstakingly slides the button-up shirt from his shoulders. He can’t keep his pulse from racing as he catches the brief flash of skin when Wrench starts to peel the turtleneck from his belly. He can’t calm his twitching fingers at the sight of those muscular arms and broad shoulders, hidden for too long beneath sweaters and coats.

It’s almost like seeing him naked for the first time. Except Numbers isn’t accidentally popping a boner while Wrench frantically apologizes for forgetting to lock the bathroom door. So, yeah,  _almost._

Once shirtless, Wrench will stand still for a moment, thumbs hooked beneath his belt, just inches from the buckle, a sight that always makes Numbers squirm in anticipation. He’ll move to unfasten his jeans, working the clasp open before pausing again and bending down to pick up Numbers’ scarf. It ends up slung around his neck, stripes framing his chest hair and grazing his dark, delectable nipples. Numbers’ mouth will start to water, and he’ll lick his lips invitingly, nodding for Wrench to please continue. The pants drop shortly after, and once Wrench is confident Numbers has gotten an eyeful of the tent pitched in his briefs, he makes quick work of those as well. 

But things are far from over.

He’ll then take Numbers’ scarf and pull it taut behind his back, wagging his ass against it, sometimes swishing it around in order to tease the fabric over his dick and balls. Numbers particularly likes when he stretches it in front of his crotch and plays some odd, erotic game of Peek-A-Boo, laughing delightedly at the way Wrench’s cock bobs and bulges beneath the wool. When Wrench is done performing, he’ll give a shout and throw the scarf around Numbers like a lasso, crawling onto the bed and pulling him into a breathless, giggly kiss. Christ, his boyfriend is such a fucking clown.

A clown that knows how to give damn good lap dances, apparently.

To be fair, Numbers has no basis for comparison, but who can be bothered with odds and ends when such a fine specimen of bootyliciousness is wriggling right before his eyes? Wrench knows how wild Numbers gets for his ass, and he’ll tempt him with it to no end, straddling Numbers’ waist and rocking his hips increasingly closer. 

Close enough for Numbers to grab a fistful, to press forward and slide his tongue over that sweet, sensitive little pucker, maybe spit on it and work in a finger or two once his hunger is sated. Wrench will be shuddering and moaning loudly by then, his cock dripping all over Numbers’ stomach, and Numbers knows the tables have turned in his favor. All it takes is a quick flip onto the mattress, and they’re off and fucking—a messy tangle of limbs on a sweat and lube-greased Slip’N Slide.

And when all’s said and done, and they’re both lying there in a sticky heap, Numbers thinks he might not mind throwing a few bills Wrench’s way. Because, hey, strippers need support, too.

And maybe Wrench could even use it to buy himself a new thong for his act. As long as he’ll let Numbers tear it off with his teeth. 


	29. Two (Non)Hitmen and a Baby (OK, Toddler)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Kinda fluffy single dad AU (TW: contains slurs from a saucy child and ableism from adult jerks)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/107329018115/a-guy-came-into-the-store-where-i-work-the-other) _"A guy came into the store where I work the other day who looked, basically, exactly like Numbers. Dark hair, beard, dark clothes etc but with one exception: he was carrying a baby (not like a random child he found on the street, it was his baby I promise) and cooing at it and just being a cute dad. So now I super want there to somehow be single dad Numbers who Wrench has the biggest crush on in a fic"_

Wrench’s boss often told him he was the perfect type for working at a toy store. As insensitive as that statement was (and as much as he wanted to reply with,  _Sure, wanna trade ears for a day?_ ), Wrench couldn’t deny that he sometimes caught himself thinking the exact same thing.

He could forgive himself the sporadic negativity, though. It seemed to come with the territory. There was a limit to the amount of stress the adult mind could take, and on days when the tantrums and backlashes had been too numerous to count, even the most patient associates slunk back to the breakroom looking like they’d just spent eight hours in the trenches. 

Yet despite some of the things he’d seen (The Great Tickle Me Elmo Shortage of ‘96; The Battle of Those Two Fat Women Over the Last Pink Furby), Wrench really liked his job. He liked working around children; he knew they weren’t all spoiled brats or shrieking loudmouths or “grabby little twats” as his coworker Jergen had once remarked. If he were straight and married, he figured he might have a whole brood of them by now. But adoption agencies simply weren’t handing kids out to single gay men. 

His job was probably the closest he’d get to having children of his own. That’s why he always gave them the warmest smiles whenever he noticed them staring or waving or poking his leg to get his attention. 

And the small girl tugging on his apron that day was especially darling.

She wore a bright purple shirt and lemon yellow pants dotted with white flowers, with mismatched socks and magenta hi-tops completing her hastily thrown together (yet no less adorable) look. Her brown hair was tied up in messy pigtails. He took her for about five or six, a rambunctious little thing judging by the way she bounced from one foot to the other and spoke as though she had no use for oxygen. It was difficult to read her—something about “princess” and “where” and “daddy”— _Oh is she looking for her father?_ He scanned the aisle, but aside from a spaced-out teenager staring at a row of board games, it was just the two of them.

_Well, then…_

He smiled and calmly held up a finger, reaching into his apron for his notepad. As he flipped through pages of pre-written niceties ( _“Hi, welcome to Smith’s Toys;” “Are you looking for something in particular?"_ ), he glanced towards the store entrance and caught sight of a man sprinting across the mall in their direction. He was either shouting or gasping for breath, though Wrench hoped for the former. Giving this guy CPR could have had the potential to become…awkward.

The man was gorgeous. A little frazzled, but hot as an Easy-Bake Oven. OK, maybe that was a stupid analogy, but Wrench couldn’t gather his thoughts long enough to come up with a better one. He was too busy staring at the guy’s luscious hair and thick, dark beard, too entranced by his multitude of tattoos, and the way his t-shirt hugged the muscles of his heaving chest and shoulders. His hands were large and lean, and moved swiftly as he scooped the girl into his arms and scolded her between breaths, his brows knit in anger. Wrench was so preoccupied with committing every square inch of this sexy DILF to memory that he almost didn’t notice the man had turned to speak to him.

“…real sorry about that. I hope she didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

_Of course not,_  he thought. _She led you here, right?_

Wrench shook his head, then offered the man his sweetest smile. He opened his notepad to the page that read “ _Can I help you find anything?”_ and, taking the pen clipped to the rings, quickly jotted above it,  _“Don’t worry about it. She’s a cute kid.”_

A curious expression played across the man’s face as he read Wrench’s note, but before he had a chance to ask, his daughter blurted out what he’d no doubt been thinking: “WHY IS HE SO WEIRD, DADDY?”

His eyes widened, seemingly appalled by the girl’s comment; he turned his head and said something to her through clenched teeth. Something that made her pout and bury her face in his neck. It was the most adorable thing Wrench had ever seen, and he chuckled and scrawled out another note to ease the poor guy’s embarrassment. 

_“It’s OK, a lot of kids are curious. I’m deaf but I can read lips.”_

It took him a moment to process that, stroking the bristles around his lips with his thumb and forefinger as if contemplating how he should proceed. Wrench hoped they could all proceed to the café after his shift and get a hot drink, maybe split one of those fancy tarts, though he highly doubted that would happen anywhere but in his daydreams.

“Well, it’s not OK,” he continued. “She was rude and she’s going to apologize for it.” He patted the girl’s arm until she lifted her head, and then leaned in to whisper into her ear. Her face puckered like she’d bitten into a lemon; once her father had finished, she narrowed her eyes at Wrench and stuck out her tongue. 

“Dammit, Jana!” Wrench could tell the man was losing his patience. Shit, he didn’t think veins could bulge that much without exploding. “I don’t care what your mother told you, you’re not getting any toys until you start behaving!”

The girl—Jana—started to whimper, and what few words Wrench managed pick up were all over the place. She could have been begging for a Princess Lobotomy Playset for all he could decipher. 

Her father’s lips—as full and tantalizing as they were—moved a lot smoother. “You’ll get your Barbie Princess Doll when you learn how to treat people with respect. Now what do you say to the nice man?”

A tiny fist wiped at tear-dampened lashes; Jana met Wrench’s smile with a sneer, and she commanded, “GET. ME. MY. BARBIE. YOU. POOP. HEAD.”

Wrench was beginning to see why Jergen had so many affectionate words for their precious little customers. But he very well couldn’t get angry with the girl. Besides, it wasn’t like he had to live with her. That pleasure belonged entirely to the frustrated, babbling man in front of him. Wrench felt a mix of sympathy for the guy and astonishment that he somehow hadn’t already torn out every last strand of his hair.

Of course he couldn’t be angry. The man was doing everything he could to make Wrench feel comfortable in the situation. Hell, Wrench had seen parents hit their kids over lesser offenses. This guy was damned good at being a dad, even if he couldn’t keep his daughter’s sass under control.

“I am so, so sorry about all of this. She’s been acting up ever since the divorce.” He prodded her once more for an apology, though Wrench didn’t know what he’d hoped to drag out of her after everything else they’d seen. 

It sure as fuck wasn’t anything _Wrench_ had been expecting. Still, she looked adorably evil when she glared at him and said:

“Mommy says it’s all daddy’s fault for being a fag." 

“ _Jana!_ That’s a BAD WORD!” Her father lowered her to the ground and gripped both her shoulders, towering over her as he undoubtedly gave her the scolding of her life. At least, that’s how Wrench assumed things were playing out. It had gotten a little too awkward for him to keep watching. 

_But…_

_Forget it,_ he told himself, stowing the notepad away,  _now’s not the best time to ask him out for coffee. Or ice cream. Or fucking Chuck E. Cheese’s._

Besides, by the time he turned his eyes back to them, the man was making a break for it, tugging the girl towards the exit, though she dragged her feet and shook her head and all but played dead in the middle of the aisle. Wrench couldn’t blame him; the fella looked like he’d rather hide in a cuddly Blanket Fort of Shame than spend another second out in public with his poorly-behaved kid.

_"Obnoxious buggers, the lot of ‘em. Makes me wish I was deaf like you, mate.”_

Fuck Jergen. Wrench wasn’t going to let these two walk out unhappy.

He cleared his throat, perhaps a bit too forcefully, because the man startled and whipped his head around, and the girl latched onto his leg as if a vicious creature were suddenly barking at them.

_Ehh, whatever. It worked, at least._

Wrench dug into his right apron pocket and produced a lollipop, almost the same shade of violet as Jana’s shirt. He pointed at the offering, quirking an eyebrow at the man to ask his permission. After a moment’s hesitation (in which he sighed and raked a hand through his gorgeous hair), the man slowly nodded.

Jana’s eyes were wide, glued to the sucker like a dog sizing up a bone, but she clung fast to her father’s leg, unmoving even after he attempted to nudge her on. Wrench grinned. Sure, he’d be concerned if the kid  _didn’t_ show a bit of wariness in the face of a stranger offering her candy. He took a step forward and crouched down, and with a wink and a few shakes of his hand, he was able to convince the doe-eyed girl to accept his gift, her tiny fingers encircling the wrapper, careful not to touch his as she pulled the lollipop out of his grip. Her father nudged her again, for a ‘Thank you’ maybe, but she just stared, the calmest she’d been since their paths crossed.

Wrench hated to see them go.

_Please be good for your father,_  he signed to her, smiling. _He’s doing the best he can._

Her mouth fell open in awe, and she moved her hands through the air clumsily, trying to mimic Wrench’s graceful gestures. He laughed, signing back,  _Good! Keep it up! You’ll get the hang of it!_ until his knees started to ache, and he reluctantly pulled himself to his feet. 

Her father was grinning delightedly at them, that rare gem of a smile that made a person’s entire face light up. "Thanks. You really made her day— _our day._ " He offered Wrench his hand, and the two shook. "See you again sometime.”

It wasn’t the first time a customer had spoken those words to him, but as he watched them leave, Wrench thought it might have been the first he truly hoped they were more than just pleasantries. 

……..

Wrench hadn’t expected to see the man again so soon, if at all. But he was back come Monday morning, striding confidently through the doors and heading straight for Wrench, as if Wrench were that one specific toy he’d set out to purchase.

Wrench could only hope that was the case. Hell, he’d even gift-wrap himself.

The man was grinning as he approached him, and Wrench tried his best to calm his budding excitement, offering a wave and a warm smile.

“You know,” he started, “My daughter has been trying to sign to me all weekend. She thinks it’s some kind of super-secret code. Like you belong to a club or something.”

Wrench chuckled. That was certainly the first time he’d seen it put that way.

He reached for his notepad, a million things he’d wanted to say bouncing around in his head. But he ended up simply holding it to his chest, watching as the man pressed his lips together and nervously scratched at his arm. When he next spoke, he stumbled over his words.

“I was wondering if—Do you—or could you—” He paused to stroke his beard. “Do you tutor by any chance?”

Wrench smiled. Of course. For those two, he’d do just about anything.


	30. Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Angsty stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Inspired by fandom speculation on the meaning of the "Boundaries" tattoo:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/107528364910/trumpetandtrombone-391780-the-more-i-think) _"I always imagined it as Wrench convincing a stubborn Numbers to let him examine his neck for any damage Lester may have caused with the taser…"_

They’re in the backseat of the Buick; Wrench is angry with Numbers for letting his guard down, but nowhere near as furious as he is with that little fuck for hurting his partner. He’s trying to strike the perfect balance between gentleness and ferocity, as either end of the spectrum is apt to piss Numbers off and earn him another goddamn lecture. Numbers hates being coddled, but Wrench hates not being able to touch him sometimes. This will have to do.

Only, Wrench can never do with just innocent touching. Numbers is well aware of that, which is why he doesn’t resist when Wrench opens far too many buttons on his shirt. He turns his head willingly when Wrench presses his lips to his neck. He lets out a short moan when Wrench’s fingers graze his nipple, when Wrench’s tongue slides over the mark where the electricity had connected with his skin..

But that’s as far as Numbers will let him go. One minute, two, three, then he pushes Wrench away, palms clammy against his wrists. Their eyes lock for a second, before Numbers turns to gaze out the window. And Wrench is left with cold hands and lips, staring blankly at the white puffs of Numbers’ breath, the exposed skin of his chest, the warning emblazoned on one who will never fully be his.

Letters strung together like a chain-link fence.

_“Boundaries.”_


	31. Meet the Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - Mature and goddamn awful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/108020538620/wrench-wishes-he-could-meet-numbers-parents-but) _"Wrench wishes he could meet Numbers' parents, but the last thing Numbers wants to do is leave the comfort of this close-to-perfect life he's carved out for himself and revisit the hell that was his pre-Fargo era. So to appease Wrench (and get him to realize that he /never/ wants to meet his parents) he acts the parts of his mom and dad in a mock "meeting their son's large gruff boyfriend" scenario. He may exaggerate a bit but it's for Wrench's own good."_

_OK, now **this**_ , Wrench laughs to himself, _is a bit over the top._

Granted, he hadn’t expected Numbers to be straight with him, not when his usual reply to  _that question_  was a simple flip of the bird and a warning to  _Get off my dick_. But for whatever reason (and that reason certainly wasn’t alcohol, not at 10:18 on a Sunday morning), Numbers had decided to forgo his customary  _un_ pleasantries and instead calmly responded,  _Why don’t I just show you why I will never subject you to the agony of having to meet my parents._

And as odd as that proposition had seemed, Wrench figured the least he could do was sit back and humor him.

Though, as he watches Numbers fiddle with the “props” he’d dug out of storage, he thinks he might be the one in for some good humor.

There’s the pair of black-rimmed glasses Numbers had stolen from the hit on that optometrist. And how could Wrench forget the blonde wig from that undercover job in Philadelphia? Christ, how they’d argued over that one:

_The poster said there would be a singing portion of the contest. There’s no way in hell I’m even going to attempt that!_

_Well, you’re sorely mistaken if you think I’m shaving even a tiny bit of my beard! I don’t care if I’m the hairiest drag queen in the whole damn place!_

Such fond memories. He only hopes Numbers’ little one-man-show is just as entertaining.

But of course it will be. He’s already giggling at the way the wig barely covers Numbers’ severe bed-head. Not to mention the hilarious expressions he’s adopting, scrunching up his face and pursing his lips, hunched over like an old lady.

_Who’s your friend, sweetie?_ He doesn’t sign directly to Wrench, but acts more as if addressing some invisible person beside himself. Once he’s finished, he takes off the wig and pivots his body slightly to the left.

_Mom, this is my boyfriend…_ He pauses.  _W-Y-A-T-T._

Wrench wrinkles his nose. Of all their aliases, Numbers just had to choose the one that sounds the hick-est. No matter. After all, Wrench just sees this as practice for the real thing.

_Oh, your boyfriend?_ Numbers continues, taking up the wig again.  _When you said you were bringing someone over, I thought maybe you’d finally met a nice Jewish girl._

The Numbers persona rolls his eyes and sighs. _You know I’m not straight. You’ve known ever since you caught me masturbating to that poster of J-I-M-M-O-R-R-I-S-O-N._

He takes a step back and puts on the glasses.  _Don’t let your mother get to you, son._ He waves his hand dismissively.  _That one never shuts up about the grandchildren._

The wig flies on, fingers slice the air angrily.  _Don’t you try to shush me, H-A-R-O-L-D!_

Wrench snorts a laugh, imagining this short old Jewish lady whipping her shawl threateningly at her husband.

Numbers—or Numbers’ mother, in this setting—doesn’t take notice. He breathes deeply, rolling his shoulders as if to calm himself— _her_ self. _But sweetie, you were always bringing girls over. I thought you liked it both ways._

He tears the wig off and scratches at the back of his head.  _I haven’t brought a girl over since S-A-L-L-Y-K-L-E-I-N was my lab partner._

_And speaking of her, do you know how many kids she has now?_

_Mom—_

The glasses again:  _R-U-T-H, please! We have company!_

Quickly, back to the wig:  _Heavens, where are my manners?_

Numbers approaches the couch and offers Wrench his hand. Once they’ve formally shaken (Wrench trying his best to keep a straight face), Numbers crosses his arms and gives Wrench a thorough appraisal. Up and down, slowly. It’s enough to make him squirm a bit. When he’s finished, Numbers raises his eyebrows and tilts his head.  _Well_ _. You’re a big one._ His eyes narrow.  _You’re not hurting my boy, are you?_

Wrench chuckles, bringing his hands up to reply, but Numbers—the real Numbers—answers for him.

_Mom, if you’re asking how our parts fit together during sex, the answer is ‘quite comfortably.’_

His mouth falls open in shock; he reels backwards, one hand clutching his chest.  _Such rudeness! I taught you better than that!_

_There’s no need to be vulgar, son._

_Me?_ He tears the glasses off his face in mock outrage.  _She’s the one making underhanded comments about my boyfriend’s dick!_

_Well, he’s not complaining._ Numbers smirks, readjusting the mess of a wig.  _He’s so quiet!_

_Because he’s deaf, mom. He doesn’t like speaking._

_Oh. Oh, dear, I’m so sorry._ He throws Wrench a sideways glance, his hand pressed to his lips.

Wrench frowns. He’d been through this part too many times; he doesn’t need Numbers to prepare him for it.

But what he doesn’t expect is for Numbers to turn his hand sideways, shielding his mouth as if pretending to exclude Wrench from the conversation. His eyes flit back and forth from Wrench to his invisible family, and when he next signs, he leans in secretively.  _Did he get it from the A-I-D-S?_

Wrench bursts out laughing, but it does little to derail Numbers’ narrative. He angrily throws the wig to the floor.  ** _Mom!_** _We’ve been here all of five minutes and you’ve already insulted him two_ — _three times! And we haven’t even made it to dinner yet!_

_Dinner! Yes, of course!_ Numbers bends, fumbling to get the wig back on his head. It sits there like a dead animal.  _You boys sit down and I’ll get the roast in the oven. You both look so thin! Are you on one of those G-A-Y diets?_

Numbers pulls the wig forward and just holds it against his face for a moment before letting it drop.  _That’s it. I’m going outside for a smoke._ He points at Wrench.  _ **You** deal with them._

He makes a show of stomping off before doubling back to where Wrench is sitting. Then, he takes both the wig and the glasses and quickly switches between them, sparking a lightning round of questions.

_Are you taking good care of my boy?_

_How stable is your career?_

_He’s not eating pork, is he?_

_Do you have any long-term goals?_

_Can you maybe convince him to start going to S-E-R-V-I-C-E again?_

_Are your finances secure?_

_Why doesn’t he call? Can you get him to call more often? Do you know how to use a phone?_

By the time he’s finished, Numbers is a gasping, sweating mess. Wrench grins, impressed by both the performance and Numbers’ rapid-fire signing. Shit, he even gives him a round of applause, before he’s halted by a ball of blonde fuzz hurtling at him.

_See?_ Numbers wipes at his forehead.  _Now do you understand why I haven’t visited my parents in over ten years? And why I intend to go without visiting them for another ten? Do you get it now?_

Wrench furrows his brow in faux-disbelief.  _Seem like nice folk to me. So when do I get to meet them?_

“Fuck you.” Numbers flips his middle finger at him.  _Get off my dick about it._


	32. The Asshole Buffet is Always Open for Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench/Numbers - VERY Explicit, take all the butt you like but eat all the butt you take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/109241326985/i-just-had-the-thought-my-butthole-is-so-velvety) _"i just had the thought, my butthole is so velvety, then thought of you, then thought of wrench talking to numbers about how nice the juxtaposition of coarse asscrack hair and soft butthole is with he eats him out kill me"_

Numbers sighs, wriggling his back against the clammy sheets as Wrench slides his tongue over him for what seems like the billionth time that night. Sure, that’s a trite hyperbole, but Numbers doesn’t give a fuck. He can’t be bothered with linguistics, not when there’s a gorgeous man between his ass cheeks, lavishing attention on him. Shit, he can barely count to five right now, and only knows he’s in his apartment because of that stupid constellation of water spots on the ceiling— _one, two, three, four…Fuck._

He really can’t be bothered. Not tonight. 

They don’t have the time to indulge in this sort of luxury when they’re on the road. If they get horny, they can spare a quick fuck at a motel or public restroom or—as a last resort—the backseat of the Buick (if Numbers can stomach Wrench bitching at him to not ‘ _spray your fucking J-I-Z-Z all over the interior’_ ). But once they’re safely back in Fargo, Wrench devotes himself to Numbers entirely, kissing and tasting and caressing like they haven’t touched each other in weeks.

Numbers thinks it’s the best part of coming home.

The backs of his knees are slick with sweat; his fingers start to slip, but he quickly recovers his grasp, pulling his legs tighter against his chest to help Wrench get the best angle. It’s not an ideal position, being folded up like a cot, but the strain is more than worth it to feel Wrench’s nose nuzzling his balls, his breath tickling his taint and stirring the hairs inside his crack.

Numbers fucking loves it. Every steamy, slippery second of it. He loves the softness of Wrench’s tongue, the roughness of his hands on his thighs, loves the feel of his face pressed so close, how it makes his asshole twitch and his cock leak all over the place.

And Wrench loves it just as much. He moans into him, wiggles his lips around and sucks hard at the center, which in turn makes Numbers shudder and whisper all manner of filthy things.

“More…fucking more. Yeah…fuck me with your tongue. Make me come…”

Oddly enough, Wrench usually does as he’s told, as if he’s telepathic or has the ability to read Numbers’ lips from all the way down there. Or, Numbers jokingly wonders, maybe it’s his butt that’s telepathic, beaming its naughty commands straight to Wrench’s brain. Wrench often claimed it had a mind of its own. A mind that, on one bizarre occasion, apparently suggested he pin Numbers down and eat Scrunyuns crumbs out of the crack of his ass.

In his defense, Wrench claimed he’d been starving, and it had been _‘the only way to make those goddamn things palatable.’_ And Numbers found he didn’t really mind being used as a condiment.

Tonight, though, Wrench’s tongue moves in the opposite direction, gliding over Numbers’ taint and across his balls. He sucks gently on each before licking upwards along his shaft, lapping at his oozing slit. Numbers squirms, hoping to feel more of that hot mouth around him, but Wrench pulls away, offering only a brief kiss to the head of his cock. He sits back, smiling, and slowly lowers Numbers’ legs to the bed.

_OK, this is fine, too_ , Numbers thinks. As much as he hates to acknowledge he’s not the youthful sex machine he once was, he can’t ignore the dull ache that radiates through his left hip as his feet settle onto the mattress. 

Whatever. A little pain never kept him from getting laid. Fuck, the sheer size of Wrench’s cock is proof enough of that statement.

He grins up at Wrench, stretching out his legs.  _You’re so good at that._

Wrench chuckles quietly.  _It’s because I can’t help myself. I can’t keep my tongue out of that delicious B-E-A-R-C-A-V-E._

Numbers rolls his eyes, but can’t stop the laughter bubbling out of him. Wrench could call his ass every cliché in the book—a juicy peach, a cherry pie, a fucking tub of  _I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!_  even—and Numbers would still get off on it. The dirty talk only adds to his arousal, and watching Wrench stare and smirk and lick the taste of him from his lips is one of the hottest things Numbers thinks he may ever see in his life.

His heart thumps faster beneath Wrench’s sultry gaze; the selfish voice inside him screams for more.

“Mmm…” Numbers hums.  _You like it that much?_

**_Of course_.**  Wrench scoffs, seemingly appalled that he would even ask that question. But his eyes widen the instant Numbers starts teasing his fingers down his own chest, tracing the path of hair to where it’s thickest. And when Numbers parts his legs to playfully pet the fuzz around his balls, Wrench’s mouth twists into a wicked smile.

He’s got him now.

_Of course I like it. It’s so soft and warm inside. S-I-L-K-Y-S-M-O-O-T-H._

_And hairy,_ Numbers laughs.

_Yeah._ Wrench licks his lips again, his gaze predatory.  _Nice and hairy._

With a groan, Numbers digs his heels into the mattress, canting his hips so he can slide his fingers down his taint and into the crack of his ass. This new angle earns him an excited gasp from Wrench. He continues eagerly:

_I love the feel of all that coarse hair against my lips. So thick. It makes getting to your asshole extra sweet. Like the treat at the center of a S-U-C-K-E-R._

Numbers’ nerves tingle with each word; he cranes his neck, paying close attention to Wrench’s movements while teasing that nice, thick patch of hair Wrench is so fond of.

Wrench’s hands tremble ever so slightly, and a deep blush creeps from his face to his chest.  _Have to work around the outside first. Gotta lick up all that delicious sweat. That candy coating._ To illustrate, he sticks out his tongue and wags it around.

“Fuck…” Numbers bites his bottom lip and stokes the matted hairs on either side of his asshole, teasing just around the rim.

_Gotta get it good and wet so it melts away. Make it open up for me._   _So soft inside, so sweet._

He gasps at how velvety soft his hole feels, how delicately it opens for the tip of his finger. How Wrench can manage to get him so relaxed yet so worked up all at once, completely unashamed as he sinks deeper inside himself.

It’s hot,  _so fucking hot_. Numbers closes his eyes and chokes out a moan, feeling the muscles stretch and throb around him.

He remembers the first time he’d seen such praise bestowed upon his ass. It was definitely  _not_  the type of comment he was used to receiving from guys, unless they’d been in the heat of the moment and those comments had gone along the lines of “Good” and “So fucking tight” and “I could pound your sweet ass all night long.” He sure as hell hadn’t been prepared for it. Yet there was Wrench, sitting comfortably between his legs, exalting his rosy hue and his aroma and his flavor like he was at a goddamn wine-tasting. And for the life of him, Numbers just couldn’t understand the appeal.

For someone who relied so heavily on communication, Wrench faltered magnificently when pressed for an explanation. After several stuttering attempts and an ambiguous shrug or two, he simply stated  _You just need to see it to appreciate it_ , then implored Numbers to wait patiently as he hurried to fetch something from the bathroom. He returned with a handheld mirror, and instructed Numbers to lie back against a bank of pillows with his legs spread. Once Numbers had settled in, Wrench lowered the glass in front of him, and when he finally saw himself, his mouth went dry.  

There, framed by dark, unkempt fur, was his ruddy, wrinkled little pucker. 

It was flushed and swollen from being teased and prodded by Wrench’s tongue, yielding when Wrench laid his fingers alongside it and spread him even wider, giving Numbers a stunning glimpse of the deep pink inside him, soft and wet and welcoming.

Just as enticing as Wrench had described. 

Numbers throws his head back against the pillow, picturing his reflection in that mirror: Open and exposed for Wrench, stretched tight around his fingers— _one, two, three, four_ —and, much, much later, slick and dripping with his come. He’s in almost up to the knuckle now, and it’s not enough to reach his prostate, but it’s enough to have him moaning, shamelessly rocking his hips and wanting more. More friction on his cock and balls. More fingers in his ass. Always  _more_.

He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts, he almost forgets he’s not alone. And then he hears a sharp, sudden gasp. 

His eyes snap open, and Numbers glances down between his legs.

“Christ…”

Wrench huffs a breathless laugh, rising higher onto his knees so Numbers can get a better view of him enthusiastically jerking his cock. He winks and loosens his grip, runs his fingertips down over his balls and back up to the head. 

_You look so sexy. You like to finger yourself for me?_

In response, Numbers grunts and keeps pumping in and out, mouth parted so Wrench can at least see how much he’s enjoying this, even if he isn’t close enough to feel the noises he’s making. They stay this way for a minute or so, Wrench stroking himself to Numbers’ display, Numbers wantonly fucking his own finger, each eyeing the other attentively, like they’ve got a front-row seat to the best show on earth.

Numbers laughs at the thought, and drags his finger out of his ass. There’s a shimmer of confusion on Wrench’s face—or maybe it’s just sweat or full-blown lust—as Numbers lowers his hips to the bed and brings his hand up towards his mouth. Holding Wrench’s gaze, he presses his finger to his lips, and slowly, seductively slides it inside. 

Suddenly, Wrench can’t seem to keep his eyes open. He groans, long and low, arching his back as he shoots thick lines of come onto his chest. 

Now  _that,_ Numbers thinks, is the hottest thing he’ll ever see.

He smiles around the finger in his mouth, watching Wrench pant and tug the last few trickles of come from his cock. When he’s finished, he falls back onto his haunches, and beams cheerfully at Numbers.

_Look at what you made me do._

Numbers pops his finger out, trying not to laugh as he runs his tongue over it repeatedly. Wrench flips him off with his come-slicked hand.

_You’re too sexy for your own good._

_Me? No way._ He props himself up on one elbow and holds his palm out to Wrench. Wrench slides closer, placing his hand in Numbers’ and softly moaning as he’s licked clean. After he’s finished, Numbers tightens his grip on Wrench’s wrist and pulls him down into a kiss. Their tongues slide together for a sweet, hot moment, before Numbers’ shoulders start to cramp and he eases back down onto the mattress.

Wrench sits there with pursed lips, looking almost disappointed. His eyes flutter open, and he lets out a sigh.  _So, what now?_

Numbers grins, glancing quickly down at his cock, then back to Wrench’s face—a gesture that warrants no explanation. Long fingers trace a line over his beard, down his neck and chest, finally grazing the throbbing flesh of his neglected cock. The pads are rough against his shaft, but Numbers raises his hips, his breath hitching as Wrench teases him from base to tip. 

_Like that?_ he pauses to ask.  _Want me to sit on it?_

_Always._  Numbers reaches up and lovingly strokes Wrench’s muttonchops.  _But I think I want to feel more of your tongue inside me first._ He winks.  _Then you can ride my cock._

_Only if you promise to do the same to me. You know I love the way your beard scratches my taint._

_I know. And you know I love your ass almost as much as you love mine._ He licks his lips, eagerly anticipating using his tongue to play a game of Connect-the-Dots with the freckles hidden between Wrench’s butt cheeks.  _Besides, yours is much nicer._

_Maybe._ Wrench says with a shrewd smile _. I guess you’ll just have to show me someday._


End file.
